GIFT   OF 
A.    P.    Morrison 


POEMS  OF  AMERICA 


NEW  ENGLAND. 


POEMS  OF  PLACES. 

EDITED,  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION,  BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"LITTLE  CLASSIC"   STYLE.    RED   EDGES.     31  volumes. 

Price  $ i. oo  a  volume.     The  set,  $25.00. 
Vols.  1-4.  England  and  Wales. 

5.  Ireland. 

6-8.  Scotland,  Denmark,  Iceland,  Norway  and  Swe- 
den. 

9,  10.  France  and  Savoy. 
11-13.  Italy. 
14,  15.  Spain,  Portugal,  Belgium,  and  Holland. 

16.  Switzerland  and  Austria. 
17,  18.  Germany. 

19.  Greece  and  Turkey  (in  Europe). 

20.  Russia,  including  Asiatic  Russia. 
21-23.  Asia. 

24.  Africa. 
25,  26.  New  England. 

27.  Middle  States. 

28.  Southern  States. 

29.  Western  States. 

30.  British  America,  Mexico,  South  America. 

31.  Oceanica. 

u  Those  who  have  not  a  library  of  the  poets  will  find  this  se- 
ries a  repo-itory  of  their  choicest  productions,  and  all  associ- 
ated with  some  place  of  interest."  —  New  York  Observer. 

"  It  is  surprising  to  find  how  very  rich  the  selections  are 
from  the  best  poets  of  all  lands.  Each  volume  is  a  choice 
repertory  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  language."  —  Southern 
Quarterly. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICA 


EDITED  BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


NEW  ENGLAND 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 


1882 


GIFT  OF 


COPYRIGHT,  1878. 

LQNGELWDW. 


CONTENTS. 
PAET  I.— NEW  ENGLAND. 

AMERICA. 

INTRODUCTORY.  PAGE 

ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA W.  J.  Linton  ...    1 

YOUNG  AMERICA  — OLD  ENGLAND    .    .     .     C.  Kent 3 

A  POET'S  PROPHECY L.  Pulci 5 

THE  VOYAGE  TO  VINLAND J.  R.  Lowell    ...    6 

VINIAND /.  Montgomery     .    .    8 

ULYSSES  AND  COLUMBUS A.  W.  W.  Dale    .    .  10 

COLUMBUS F.  von  Schiller     .    .  12 

VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS S.  Rogers    ....  12 

COLUMBUS J.  Montgomery    .    .  16 

FIRST  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS /.  Baillie    ....  17 

COLUMBUS  AND  THE  MAYFLOWER     .     .     .  Lord  Houghton    .    .  20 

THE  INDIANS C.  Sprague  ....  21 

OUR  ABORIGINES L.  H.  Sigourney  .    .  23 

THE  INDIAN  BURYING-GROUND    ....  P.  Freneau     ...  25 
ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  PLANTING  ARTS  AND 

LEARNING  IN  AMERICA G.  Berkeley      ...  27 

AMERICA Lord  Byron     ...  28 

AMERICA W.  C.  Bryant ...  29 

AMERICA A.  C.  Coxe  ....  30 

THE  OLD  THIRTEEN C.  T.  Brooks    ...  32 

THE  OLD  CONTINENTALS Anonymous     ...  33 

•THE  UNITED  STATES J.  R.  Lowell     ...  35 

OUR  COUNTRY J.  W.  Howe     ...  36 

THE  EMIGRANTS F.  Freiligrath     .     .  38 

THE  NATION'S  DEAD Anonymous     ...  39 

THE  SHIP  OF  STATE H.  W.  Longfellow     .  41 

NEW  ENGLAND. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

MAINE I.  McLellan     ...  43 

NEW  HAMPSHIBB  .                                   .  /.  G.  Whittier     .    .  44 


M103154 


v  CONTENTS. 

INTRODUCTORY  (continued). 

VERMONT J.  C.  R.  Dorr  ...  45 

MASSACHUSETTS J.  G.  Whittier     .    .  47 

RHODE  ISLAND C.  F.  Sates.    ...  48 

CONNECTICUT F.-G.  Hallech  ...  49 

THE  SNOW-STOEM R.  W.  Emerson    .    .  51 

SNOW-BOUND J.  G.  Whittier     .     .  52 

OUR  NEIGHBOR H.  P.  Spo/ord     .    .  54 

ABINGTON,   MASS. 

THE  OLD  MILL .    .  R.  H.  Stoddard    .    .  57 

ANDOVER,   MASS. 

THE  SCHOOL-BOY 0.  W.  Holmes  ...  59 

ARLINGTON,   MASS. 

MENOTOMY  LAKE  (SPY  POND)     .    .     .    .    J.  T.  Trowbridge     .  62 

ASSABET,  THE  RIVER,  MASS. 

FLOATING  HEARTS     ........    G.  B.  Bartlett ...  65 

BEARCAMP,  THE  RIVER,  N.  H. 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP J.  G.  Whittier     .    .  66 

BETHLEHEM,  N.  H. 

MOUNT  AGASSIZ C.  F.  Bates.    ...  69 

BEVERLY,  MASS. 

HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES L.  Larcotn  ....  69 

SKIPPER  BEN "          ....  71 

THE  LIGHT-HOUSES "          ....  74 

BEVERLY  SHORE  IN  WINTER T.  G.  Appleton    .    .  75 

BIRCH   STREAM,   ME. 

BIRCH  STREAM A.  B.  Averill  ...  77 

BLOCK  ISLAND  (MANISEES),   R.  I. 

THE  ISLAND R.  H.  Dana     ...  79 

THE  PALATINE J.  G.  Whittier     .    .  80 

BLUE  MOUNTAINS,  ME. 

THE  DISTANT  MOUNTAIN -RANGE  .    .     .    .    L.  Larcom  ....  84 
THE  PRESENCE "         ....  85 

BOONE  ISLAND,  ME. 

THE  WATCH  OF  BOONE  ISLAND  .    .    .    .    C.  Thaxter  ....  85 

BOSTON,   MASS. 

THE  HARBOR R  Southey  ....  88 

BOSTON R.  W.  Emerson    .    .  89 

CALEP  IN  BOSTON J.  G.  Whittier      .     .  91 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET    ...//.  W.  Longfellow     .  92 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

BOSTON  (continued). 

IN  THE  OLD  SOUTH  CHURCH J.  G.  Whittier     .    .  94 

THE  BELFRY  PIGEON N.  P.  Willis  ...  96 

MARY  CHILSON G.  B.  Griffith      .    .    98 

CHRIST  CHURCH E.  B.  Russell     .    .    99 

BOSTON  COMMON.  —  THREE  PICTURES   .     .  0.  W.  Holmes    .    .  100 

TRI-MOUNTAIN H .  T.  Tuckerman  .  102 

CHURCH  BELLS 0.  W.  Holmes     .     .  104 

THE  GREAT  FIRE  OF  NOVEMBER  9,  1872  .  J.  B.  O'Reilly     .    .  106 
GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OP  BUNKER-HILL 

BATTLE 0.  W.  Holmes    .    .  107 

THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT .    .  118 

BROOKFIELD,   MASS. 

THE  OLD  BRIDGE S.  G.  W.  Benjamin   120 

BROOKLINE,   MASS. 

A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE H.  W.  Longfellow  .  121 

BRUNSWICK,   ME. 

MORITURI  SALUTAMUS .124 

PARKER  CLEAVELAND .  125 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 

THE  WASHINGTON  ELM J.  R.  Lovjell  .    . 

MEMORIAL  HALL C.  P.  Cranch.    . 

THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD     .     .    .    .  0.  W.  Holmes     . 

IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE    .    .  H.  W.  Longfellow 

ST.  JOHN'S^  CAMBRIDGE " 

THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH " 

THE  BRIDGE 

FELTON  AND  SUMNEE " 

MOUNT  AUBURN W.  Winter    .    . 

MOUNT  AUBURN I.  McLelton  ,    . 

MOUNT  AUBURN  CEMETERY J.  R.  Thomas 

THE  SPHINX  AT  MOUNT  AUBURN     .     .    .  C.  F.  Bates    .    . 

CAPE  ANN,   MASS. 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN     .    .    .    .    J.  G.  Whittier    .    .  146 
CAPE  ARUNDEL,   ME. 

THE  OLD  LOBSTERMAN J.  T.  Trowbridge    .  150 

CAPE  COD,   MASS. 

FIRST  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS    .    .    .    R.  Southey    .    .    .  15S 

CASCO  BAY,   ME. 

CASCO  BAT .     .    J.  G.  Whittier    .    .  155 

WHITE  HEAD E.  A.  Allen  ...  156 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

CHARLES,  THE  RIVER,  MASS. 

To  THE  RIVER  CHARLES H.  W.  Longfellow  .  158 

CHARLES  RIVER  MARSHES J.  R.  Lowell  .    .  .  160 

CONCORD  (MUSKETAQUID),   MASS. 

MUSKETAQUID R.  W.  Emerson  .  .  164 

CONCORD  FIGHT "              .  .  167 

LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  GRAVES  OF  TWO 
ENGLISH  SOLDIERS  ON  CONCORD  BATTLE- 
GROUND    J.  R.  Lowell  .  .  .167 

HAWTHORNE H*W.  Longfellow  .  169 

AT  HAWTHORNE'S  GRAVE C.  F.  Bates    .    .  .  171 

HAWTHORNE'S  GRAVE F.  D.  Mason.     .  .  172 

DIRGE R.  W.  Emerson  .  .  172 

THOREAU'S  FLUTE Anonymous  .    .  .174 

WALDEN  LAKE W.  E.  Channing  .  176 

SLEEPY  HOLLOW "  .177 

CONCORD,   THE  RIVER,  MASS. 

Two  RIVERS R.  W.  Emerson  .  .  178 

FAIRHAVEN  BAY G.  P.  Lathrop    .  .  179 

CONNECTICUT,   THE  RIVER. 

To  CONNECTICUT  RIVER J.  G.  C.  Brainard  .  181 

CONNECTICUT  RIVER L.  H.  Sigourney  .  183 

CUMMINGTON,   MASS. 

LINES  ON  REVISITING  THE  COUNTRY     .    .  W.  C.  Bryant    .  .  185 

THE  RIVULET "             .  .  186 

BRYANT'S  BIRTHPLACE C.  F.  Bates    .    .  .189 

DOVER   (COCHECO),   N.  H. 

JOHN  UNDERBILL J.  G.  Whittier    .  .  190 

ELLIS,   THE  RIVER,   ME. 

ELLIS  RIVER Anonymous  .    .  .196 

ENFIELD,   CONN. 

THE  CAPTALN'S  DRUM B.  F.  Taylor  .    .  .197 

GLOUCESTER,   MASS. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS  .     .     .     .  H.  W.  Longfellow   .  201 

THE  PHANTOM  BOAT E.  N.  Gunnison  .  204 

MIDSUMMER  IN  THE  CITY E.  Sargent     .    .  .  207 

A  WAIF H.  C.  L.  Haskell  .  208 

IN  THE  SEA H.  Rich     ....  209 

GREAT  BARRINGTON,   MASS. 

GREEN  RIVER W.  C.  Bryant     .  211 

MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN    .                                         "  .  213 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


GREEN   MOUNTAINS,   VT. 

THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS J.  R.  LmceU  .    .    .215 

HAMPTON,   N.  H. 

HAMPTON  BEACH J.  G.  Whittier    .  .  215 

THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH .  .  218 

THE  CHANGELING "              .  .  224 

HARPSWELL,   ME. 

THE  DEAD  SHIP  OP  HARPSWELL  ....  .    .  227 

HARTFORD,   CONN. 

ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT    . .     .  230 

HAVERHILL  (PENTUCKET),   MASS. 

PENTUCKET .  .  232 

THE  OLD  BURTING-GROUND .  .  235 

THE  SYCAMORES "             .  .  239 

HIGHGATE,  VT. 

LITTLE  JERRY,  THE  MILLER J.  G.  Saxe.    ...  242 

HINGHAM,   MASS. 

PAD*  IN  AUTUMN R.  H.  Stoddard  .    .  244 

HOLYOKE,  THE  MOUNTAIN,   MASS. 

SUNDAY  ON  MOUNT  HOLYOKE J.  F.  Colman     .    .  246 

HOPKINTON,   MASS. 

THE  FRANKLAND  MANSION 0.  W.  Holmes    .    .  248 

HOUSATONIC,   THE  RIVER,  MASS. 

BENNETT'S  BRIDGE J.  H.  Nichols     .     .  262 

IPSWICH,   MASS. 

IPSWICH  TOWN J.  A.  Morgan    .    .  254 

HEARTBREAK  HILL C.  Thaxter     ...  256 

ISLES   OF  SHOALS,  N.  H. 

PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE J.  R.  Lowell  .    .    .258 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS    .     .    .     C.  Thaxter     ...  265 

THE  SPANIARDS'  GRAVES  AT  THE  ISLES  OF 
SHOALS    .  «  .  ofia 


CONTENTS. 
PART  II.  — NEW  ENGLAND. 


KATAHDIN,  THE  MOUNTAIN,   ME. 
To  A  PINE-TREE 

J  R  Lowell  .     . 

PAGE 
1 

KEARSARGE,  THE  MOUNTAIN,   N.  H. 
MOUNT  KEARSARGE   

.     E.  D.  Proctor  .    . 

.    3 

KENNEBEC,  THE  RIVER,   ME. 
THE  KENNEBEC     

Anonymous    . 

.    5 

KILLINGWORTH,   CONN. 
THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH     .    .    . 

.    'H.  W.  Longfellow 

7 

LEXINGTON,  MASS. 
LEXINGTOV 

J  G  Whittier 

16 

LYNN,   MASS. 
THE  B^LLS  OP  LYNX           

H.  W.  Longfellow 

.  18 

HIGH  ROCK  

.     E.  F.  Merrill  .     . 

.  19 

MARBLEHEAD,  MASS. 
SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE     
A  PLEA  FOR  FLOOD  IRESON    .... 

.     J.  G.  Whittier.     . 
.     C.  T.  Brooks    .     . 

.  21 
.  25 

THE  SWAN  SONG  OP  PARSON  AVERT    . 
BY  THE  SEA-SHORE    
CAPTAIN  MORROW'S  THANKSGIVING  .    . 
THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD      .... 

.     J.  G.  Whittier.     . 
.    J.  W.  Chadwick  . 
.     L.  E.  PMrr  .     .     . 
.     H.  W.  Longfellow 

.  27 
.  30 
.  32 
.  34 

MARSIIFIELD,   MASS. 
WEBSTER     

.     W.  H.  C.  Hosmer. 

.  36 

MARTHA'S  VINEYARD,   MASS 
THE  BELLS  OF  EDGARTOWN     .... 

.    E.  N.  Gunnison  . 

.  37 

MATTAPOISETT,   MASS. 
A  SEA-SIDE  IDYL       

THE  HOUSE  OF  YOUTH 

.     E.  Stoddard     .    . 

M 

.  38 
39 

MELVIN,   THE  RIVER,   N.  H. 
THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE  . 

.    /.  G.  Whittier. 

.  41 

Xll  CONTENTS. 

MEMPHREMAGOG,   THE  LAKE,  VT. 

A  LAY  OF  MEMPHREMAGOG L.  S.  Goodwin  .  .  46 

MERRIMAC,  THE  RIVER,  N.  II.  AND  MASS. 

THE  MERRIMAC J.  G.  IVhittier     .     .  49 

THE  MERRIMAC  REVISITED .    .  58 

OUR  RIVER "  ...  55 

MIDDLESEX  COUNTY,  MASS. 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE H.  W.  Longfellow  .  58 

MILTON,  MASS. 

SUNDAY  ON  THE  HILL-TOP W.  C.  Gannett  .  .  63 

MINOT'S  LEDGE,  MASS. 

MINOT'S  LEDGE F.  J.  O'Brien       .     .  65 

MONADNOCK,  THE  MOUNTAIN,  N.  H. 

MONADNOCK R.  W.  Emerson    .    .  67 

MONADNOCK W.  B.  0.  Peabody    .  72 

MOSHASSUCK,  THE  RIVER,   R.  I. 

A  SEPTEMBER  EVENING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF 
THE  MOSHASSUCK .    .    S.  H.  Whitman   .    .  74 

MOUNT  DESERT,  ME. 

ECHO  NOTCH Anonymous     ...  76 

GREEN  MOUNTAIN J.  Weiss     ....  77 

GREAT  HEAD "  ....  78 

MOUNT  HOPE,  R.  I. 

KING  PHILIP Anonymous     ...  80 

MOUNT  HOPE J.  W.  Easfburn   .    .  81 

MOUNT  HOPE W.  A.  Cro/ut ...  83 

MOUNT  PLEASANT,  ME. 

MOUNT  PLEASANT R.  Sanborn     ...  85 

NAHANT,   MASS. 

PALINGENESIS H.  W.  Longfellow     .  87 

WETMORE  COTTAGE W.  W.  Story   ...  89 

AGASSIZ H.  W.  Longfellow     .  91 

NANTASKET,  MASS. 

NANTASKET M.  Clemmer    ...  91 

NANTUCKET,  MASS. 

A  SONG  OF  NANTUCKET E.  N.  Gunnison  .    .  95 

NARRAGANSETT  BAY,  R.  I. 

NARRAGANSETT  BAY J.  W.  Easfburn   .    .  96 

IN  NARRAGANSETT  CHURCHYARD  .    .    .    .    E.  V.  Carpenter  .    .  98 


CONTENTS.  Xlil 

NASHUA,  THE  RIVER,   N.  H. 

NASHUA R.  Dawes  .    .    .    .101 

NATIOK,  MASS. 

ELIOT'S  OAK H.  W.  Longfellow  .  102 

NEWBURY,  MASS. 

THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEWBURY  /.  G.  WTiittier    .    .  103 

THE  PROPHECY  OP  SAMUEL  SEWALL.    .    .  .    .  106 

THE  OLD  ELM  OF  NEWBURY H.  F.  Gould      .    .  110 

NEWBURYPORT,   MASS. 

THE  PREACHER J.  G.  Whitiier    .    .  113 

NEWCASTLE,  N.  H. 

THE  GRAVE  OF  CHAMPERNOWNE  .     .    .    .  J.  Elwyn  ....  115 

NEW  HAVEN,  CONN. 

TriE  BURYING-GROUND N.  L.  FrothingJiam    116 

THE  PHANTOM  SHIP  .    . H.  W.  Longfellow  .  117 

NEW  LONDON,   CONN. 

NEW  LONDON F.  M .  Caulkins  .    .  119 

PLOWDEN  HALSEY C.  F.  Orne     .     .    .120 

THE  CAPTAIN J.  G.  C.  Brainard   .  123 

NEWPORT,   R.  I. 

THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR H.  W.  Longfettoiv  .  125 

A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE B.  Harte   ....  130 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE N.  Perry   ....  133 

THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT  .     .  H.  W.  Longfellow  .  133 

i^THE  GRAY  CLIFF  AT  NEWPORT    .     .     .     .  W.  C.  Doane ...  139 

^  THE  CLIFFS  AT  NEWPORT R.  Dana    ....  140 

THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI J.  G.  Whittier    .     .  140 

NORRIDGEWOCK,   ME. 

OLD  NORRIDGEWOCK Anonymous   .     .     .141 

AT  NORRIDGEWOCK J.  G.  Whittier   .    .  143 

NORTHAMPTON,  MASS. 

NORTHAMPTON H.  T.  TucTcei-man   .  144 

HOLYOKE  VALLEY E.G.  Stedman   .    .  145 

NORWICH,   CONN. 

THE  INLAND  CITY "              .    .  148 

OSSIPEE,  THE  LAKE,  N.  H. 

ON  THE  HILLS J.  G.  Whittier    .    .  150 

OTTER,  THE  RIVER,  VT. 

THE  RIVER  OTTER J.  C.  R.  Dorr     .     .  151 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PARKER  RIVER,  MASS. 

PARKER  RIVER. H.  Henderson    .    .  152 

PAWTUCKET  FALLS,  R.  I. 

PAWTUCKET  FALLS J.  Durfee  ....  155 

PEMAQUID,  ME. 

GOD'S  ACRE  AT  OLD  PEMAQUID  ....    Anonymous  .    .    .  156 

PEMIGEWASSET,   THE  RIVER,   N.  H. 

MY  MOUNTAIN L.  Larcom      .    .     .  157 

PENIKESE,   THE  ISLAND,  MASS. 

THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ J.  G.  WJiittier    .     .  160 

PENIKESE T.  G.  Appleton  .    .  164 

PENOBSCOT,   THE  BAY,  ME. 

PENOBSCOT  BAY J.  G.  Whittier    .     .  165 

PENOBSCOT,   THE  RIVER,  ME. 

NOREMBEGA "  .       .    168 

THE  PHANTOM  CITY F.  L.  Mace    .    .    .  173 

PISCATAQUA,   THE  RIVER,  N.  H. 

PISCATAQUA  RIVER T.  B.  Aldrich     .    .  175 

PITTSFIELD,  MASS. 

THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS  .    .     .    .    H.  W.  Longfelloiv  .  176 
PLUM  ISLAND,  MASS. 

INSIDE  PLUM  ISLAND H.  P.  Spo/ord    .     .  179 

PLYMOUTH,   MASS. 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS J.  Pierpont    .    .     .184 

THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS 
IN  NEW  ENGLAND F.  Hemans     .    .    .  185 

AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDISH  .     .     J.  R.  Lowell  .    .     .  187 

THE  MAYFLOWERS J.  G.  Whittier    .    .  193 

ELDER  FAUNCE  AT  PLYMOUTH  ROCK     .     .     C.  F.  Or>ie     .     .    .  194 

PLYMOUTH,  N.  H. 

DEATH  OF  HAWTHORNE A.  Fields  ....  197 

PORTLAND,   ME. 

MY  LOST  YOUTH H.  W.  Longfellow  .  198 

CHANGED "  .201 

FESSENDEN'S  GARDEN E.  A.  Allen    .    .    .202 

PORTSMOUTH,   N.  H. 

AMY  WENTWORTH J.  G.  Whittier    .     .  203 

LADY  WENTWORTH H.  W.  Longfellow   .  206 

PROVIDENCE,  R.  I. 

ROGER  WILLIAMS S.  H .  Whitman  .    .  212 


CONTENTS.  XV 

PROVIDENCE,  R.  I.  (continued). 

GUILD'S  SIGNAL B.  Harte   ....  215 

A  NOVEMBER  LANDSCAPE S.  H.  Whitman .     .  216 

To  THE  WEATHERCOCK  ON  OUR  STEEPLE   .  A.  G.  Greene      .    .  217 

RHODE  ISLAND,   THE  ISLAND,  R.  I. 

A  MEDITATION  ON  RHODE  ISLAND  COAL    .     W.  C.  Bryant     .    .  220 

RYE,    N.  H. 

VOICES  OP  THE  SEA T.  Durfee  ....  224 

SACO,  THE  RIVER,   N.  H.   AND  ME. 

THE  RIVER  SACO J.  G.  Lyons    ...  225 

THE  FALLS  OF  THE  SACO J.  G.  Wliittier    .    .  226 

SACO  FALLS J.  T.  Fields   ...  227 

THE  SACO J.  G.  Whittier    .     .  228 

SALEM,  MASS. 

SALEM  WITCHCRAFT H.  W.  Longfellow   .  229 

SALEM W.  W.  Story  ...  231 

SALMON,   THE  RIVER,   N.  H. 

SALMON  RIVER J.  G.  C.  Brainard  .  234 

SAYBROOK,  CONN. 

BRIDE  BROOK G.  P.  Lathrop    .    .  236 

SCITUATE,   MASS. 

THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET S.  Woodworth    .    .  239 

AT  SEA G.  Lunt     ....  240 

SEACONNET  POINT,  R.  I. 

NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  SEACONNET  SHORE  .     .    S.  H.  Whitman .    .  242 

STORM  ON  SAUGONNET G.  S.  Burleigh    .     .  243 

SEBAGO,   THE  LAKE,  ME. 

FUNERAL-TREE  OP  THE  SOKOKIS  .    .    .    .    J.  G.  Wltittier    .    .  246 

SHOAL  OF  GEORGE'S,   MASS. 

THE  LETTER  OF  MARQUE C.  F.  Orne     .    .    .248 

SONGO,   THE  RIVER,   ME. 

SONGO  RIVER H.  W.  Longfellow  .  251 

SPRINGFIELD,   MASS. 

THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD     ....  "  .    .  253 

SUDBURY,   MASS. 

THE  WAYSIDE  INN "  .    .  255 

WACHUSETT,  THE  MOUNTAIN,  MASS. 

WACHUSETT .     .    J.  G.  WTiittier    .     .  257 

To  WACHUSETT     .  .    H.  D.  Thoreau  .    .  259 


Xvi  CONTENTS. 

WAVERLY,  MASS. 

BEAVEK  BROOK J.  R-  Lowell  ...  260 

WHITE  MOUNTAINS,  N    H. 

THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS J.  G.  Whittier    .    .  262 

AMONG  THE  HILLS .    .  264 

THE  OLD  MAN  OP  THE  MOUNTAIN    .    .     .  J.  T.  Trowbridge    .  266 

IN  A  CLOUD  RIFT L.  Larcom ....  270 

CHOCORUA "        ....  272 

CLOUDS  ON  WHITEFACE "        ....  273 

BALD-CAP  REVISITED J.  W.  Chadwick.    .  273 

LAKE  OF  THE  CLOUDS,  MT.  WASHINGTON  .  H.  Henderson    .    .  275 

WINNIPESAUKEE,   THE  LAKE,   N.  H. 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE J.  G.  Whittier    .    .  278 

AT  ALTON  BAY H.  ButterwortJi  .     .  282 

AT  WIIWIPESAUKEE L.  Larcom     .    .     .284 

WOONSOCKET,  R.  I. 

FROM  WOONSOCKET  HTT.T, J.  L.  Osborne.    .    .  285 

YORK,  ME. 

AGAMENTICUS Anonymous  .    .    .  287 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

NEW  ENGLAND  STATES.     PART  I. 

PAGE 
"The  daring  mariner  shall   urge  far  o'er  the  western 

wave " 5 

"  And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled  "     .  29 

"  In  many  a  fevered  swamp  " 40 

"  And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end  "           .  51 

The  Old  South  Church 95 

The  Old  Elm,  formerly  on  Boston  Common         .        .  102 

Bunker  Hill  Monument 115 

The  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge         .        .        .        .  126 
Entrance  to  Mount  Auburn,  Cambridge  .         .        .         .143 

"  This  little  rill,  that  from  the  springs  "...  186 

The  Isles  of  Shoals 258 


NEW  ENGLAND  STATES.     PART  II. 

"  Or  half  concealed 

Behind  the  clustering  maples  of  a  grove  "                .  .6 

Skipper  Ireson's  ride 21 

"  Upon  the  murky  sea  " 39 

"  One  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea  "  59 

"  Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn  "       .        .  -75 

"  The  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea  "      .        .        .        .  87 

"  Thou  ancient  oak  " 102 

The  Phantom  Ship 119 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 

Tracked  I  the  grizzly  bear "          .        .        .        .  .126 

Leyden" Street,  Plymouth,  Mass 184 

"  Rush  on,  bold  stream "  .        .        .                 .        .  .  227 

"  The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  "        ....  267 


NEW  ENGLAND.- 
PART  I. 


IWTBODUCTOKY. 

ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA. 
1876. 

A  HUNDRED  years  ! 
Too  long  for  memory  of  the  justest  feud ! 
Last  century's  quarrel  to  its  end  pursued 
And  yours  the  triumph,  may  not  we  grasp  hands, 
Now  each  one  stands 

Apart  from  fears? 

*  *  * 

Brothers !  that  word 

Makes  Tyranny  weak;  Wrong  flies,  nor  looks  behind, 

Driven  as  dry  leaves  before  the  herald  wind 

That  clears  the  way  for  spring's  most  gentle  flowers. 

0  waiting  hours ! 

Your  plaint  is  heard. 

Land  named  of  hope  ! 

Our  best  have  hailed  the  promise  of  thy  growth; 

Surely  hath  honor's  race-ground  room  for  both 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

America  and  England,  side  by  side, 
Yet  leaving  pride 

(  Sufficient  scope. 


ours 

Ar.t  ,thou,  as  England  's  thine  :  thy  children  own 
Ttie;  common  paientage.     Nor  they  alone, 
But'wheresoe'er  is  heard  our  English  tongue  — 
World-widely  flung 

For  coming  hours. 

Be  with  us  then, 

Thou  greater  England!  second  but  in  time: 

Our  age  shall  welcome  our  young  giant's  prime, 

As  in  his  sons  a  father  takes  delight, 

Proud  of  the  height 

Of  younger  men. 

O'erstride  our  fame  ! 

Step  past  the  extremest  stretch  of  our  renown  ! 

Wreathe  round  Columbia's  head  the  laurel  crown 

Our  old  heroic  worth  can  well  assign! 

The  crown  be  thine  — 

In  England's  name  ! 

Eor  we  are  one,  — 
In  race,  in  will,  in  energy  the  same  : 
Twin  aspirations  of  one-tongued  flame. 
England  were  fain  to  see  you  climb  beyond 
Our  hopes  most  fond, 

And  all  we  have  done. 
*  *  * 

William  James  Linton. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


YOUNG  AMERICA -OLD  ENGLAND. 

WHAT  !  shall  Saxon  bonds  be  sundered 
By  the  sordid  lust  of  gain? 
Shall  the  realms  of  peace  be  ravaged 

By  the  rulers  of  the  main 
For  the  greed  of  gold  or  glory? 

No,  — forbid  it,  God  the  Lord! 
Young  America  —  Old  England  — 
Haud-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword! 

Shall  one  hour  dissever  races 

Thus  allied  by  kindred  fame, 
Speaking  both  one  common  language, 

Men  with  blood  and  bards  the  same? 
Such  dark  crime  can  never  follow 

Foolish  taunt  or  idle  word: 
Young  America  —  Old  England  — 

Hand-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword! 

Has  not  History  woven  our  laurels 

Till  their  many  wreaths  are  one,  — 
Yours  the  pride  in  burly  Cromwell, 

Ours  in  honest  Washington? 
With  the  radiance  of  past  annals 

Shall  the  future  not  be  stored? 
Young  America  —  Old  England  — 

Hand-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword! 

Does  broad  ocean  roll  between  us? 
We  are  still  brought  side  by  side, 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

By  the  peaceful  navies  Commerce 
Scatters  grandly  o'er  the  tide. 

Shall  we  wake  our  dormant  thunders 
Where  toil-laden  ships  are  moored? 

Young  America  —  Old  England  — 
Hand-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword ! 

Have  we  not  alike  together 

Prized  the  songs  our  poets  sung 
Since  the  golden  day  when  Genius 

First  drew  music  from  our  tongue  ? 
Godlike  Shakespeare,  seerlike  Milton, 

All  now  cry  with  one  accord, 
Young  America  —  Old  England  — 

Hand-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword! 

Has  not  Art  shed  equal  splendors 

On  the  treasures  each  possest 
In  the  homely  hues  of  Hogarth, 

In  the  sacred  dyes  of  West : 
And  not  less  on  Powers  than  Elaxman 

Phidian  inspiration  poured? 
Young  America  —  Old  England  — 

Hand-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword! 

We  have  loved  the  same  old  legends 
Throwing  charms  around  our  lot, 

Through  each  tale  of  gentle  Irving, 
Each  romance  of  gorgeous  Scott. 

And  shall  war  pollute  the  cloudland, 
Battle  dint  the  fairy  sward? 


INTRODUCTORY.  5 

Young  America  —  Old  England  — 
Hand-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword ! 

Then  shall  Saxon  bonds  be  sundered 

By  the  sordid  lust  of  gain? 
Shall  the  realms  of  peace  be  ravaged 

By  the  rulers  of  the  main 
For  the  greed  of  gold  or  glory  ? 

No,  — forbid  it,  God  the  Lord! 
Young  America  —  Old  England  — 

Haud-in-hand,  not  sword  to  sword ! 

Charles  Kent. 

A  POET'S  PROPHECY, 

KNOW  that  this  theory  is  false;  his  bark 
The  daring  mariner  shall  urge  far  o'er 
The  western  wave,  —  a  smooth  and  level  plain, 
Albeit  the  earth  is  fashioned  like  a  wheel. 
Man  was  in  ancient  days  of  grosser  mould, 
And  Hercules  might  blush  to  learn  how  far 
Beyond  the  limits  he  had  vainly  set, 
The  dullest  sea-boat  soon  shall  wing  her  way. 

Men  shall  descry  another  hemisphere, 

Since  to  one  common  centre  all  things  tend; 

So  earth,  by  curious  mystery  divine 

Well  balanced,  hangs  amid  the  starry  spheres. 

At  our  Antipodes  are  cities,  states, 

And  thronged  empires,  ne'er  divined  of  yore. 

But  see,  the  sun  speeds  on  his  western  path 

To  glad  the  nations  with  expected  light. 

Luigi  Pulci.     Tr.  W.  H.  Prescott. 


POEMS   OF   PLACES. 


THE  VOYAGE  TO  VINLAND. 

FOUR  weeks  they  sailed,  a  speck  in  sky-shut  seas, 
Life,  where  was  never  life  that  knew  itself, 
But  tumbled,  lubber-like,  in  blowing  whales ; 
Thought,  where  the  like  had  never  been  before 
Since  Thought  primeval  brooded  the  abyss; 
Alone  as  men  were  never  in  the  world. 
They  saw  the  icy  foundlings  of  the  sea, 
White  cliffs  of  silence,  beautiful  by  day, 
Or  looming,  sudden-perilous,  at  night 
In  monstrous  hush;  or  sometimes  in  the  dark 
The  waves  broke  ominous  with  paly  gleams 
Crushed  by  the  prow  in  sparkles  of  cold  fire. 
Then  came  green  stripes  of  sea  that  promised  land 
But  brought  it  not,  and  on  the  thirtieth  day 
Low  in  the  West  were  wooded  shores  like  cloud. 
They  shouted  as  men  shout  with  sudden  hope ; 
But  Biorn  was  silent,  such  strange  loss  there  is 
Between  the  dream's  fulfilment  and  the  dream, 
Such  sad  abatement  in  the  goal  attained. 
Then  Gudrida,  that  was  a  prophetess, 
Rapt  with  strange  influence  from  Atlantis,  sang: 
Her  words :  the  vision  was  the  dreaming  shore's. 

Looms  there  the  New  Laud : 
Locked  in  the  shadow 
Long  the  gods  shut  it, 
Niggards  of  newness 
They,  the  o'er-old. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

Little  it  looks  there, 
Slim  as  a  cloud-streak; 
It  shall  fold  peoples 
Even  as  a  shepherd 
Foldeth  his  flock. 

Silent  it  sleeps  now; 
Great  ships  shall  seek  it, 
Swarming  as  salmon; 
Noise  of  its  numbers 
Two  seas  shall  hear. 

Man  from  the  Northland, 
Man  from  the  Southland, 
Haste  empty-handed; 
No  more  than  manhood 
Bring  they,  and  hands. 

Dark  hair  and  fair  hair, 
Red  blood  and  blue  blood, 
There  shall  be  mingled; 
Force  of  the  ferment 
Makes  the  New  Man. 

Pick  of  all  kindreds, 
King's  blood  shall  theirs  be, 
Shoots  of  the  eldest 
Stock  upon  Midgard, 
Sons  of  the  poor. 

Them  waits  the  New  Land; 
They  shall  subdue  it, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Leaving  their  sons'  sons 
Space  for  the  body, 
Space  for  the  soul. 


James  Russell  Lowell. 


YINLAND. 

GREENLAND'S  bold  sons,  by  instinct,  sallied  forth 
^  On  barks,  like  icebergs  drifting  from  the  north, 
Crossed  without  magnet  undiscovered  seas, 
And,  all  surrendering  to  the  stream  and  breeze, 
Touched  on  the  line  of  that  twin-bodied  land 
That  stretches  forth  to  either  pole  a  hand, 
From  arctic  wilds  that  see  no  winter  sun 
To  where  the  oceans  of  the  world  are  one, 
And  round  Magellan's  straits,  Fuego's  shore, 
Atlantic,  Indian,  and  Pacific  roar. 

Regions  of  beauty  there  these  rovers  found; 
The  flowery  hills  with  emerald  woods  were  crowned; 
Spread  o'er  the  vast  savannas,  buffalo  herds 
Ranged  without  master;   and  the  bright- winged  birds 
Made  gay  the  sunshine  as  they  glanced  along, 
Or  turned  the  air  to  music  with  their  song. 

Here  from  his  mates  a  German  youth  had  strayed, 
Where  the  broad  river  cleft  the  forest  glade; 
Swarming  with  alligator-shoals,  the  flood 
Blazed  in  the  sun,  or  moved  in  clouds  of  blood; 
The  wild  boar  rustled  headlong  through  the  brake; 
Like  a  live  arrow  leaped  the  rattlesnake ; 


INTRODUCTORY.  9 

The  uncouth  shadow  of  the  climbing  bear 

Crawled  on  the  grass,  while  he  aspired  in  air; 

Anon  with  hoofs,  like  hail,  the  greenwood  rang, 

Among  the  scattering  deer  a  panther  sprang: 

The  stripling  feared  not,  yet  he  trod  with  awe, 

As  if  enchantment  breathed  o'er  all  he  saw, 

Till  in  his  path  uprose  a  wilding  vine; 

Then  o'er  his  memory  rushed  the  noble  Rhine; 

Home  and  its  joys,  with  fulness  of  delight, 

So  rapt  his  spirit,  so  beguiled  his  sight, 

That  in  those  glens  of  savage  solitude 

Yineyards  and  cornfields,  towns  and  spires,  he  viewed, 

And  through  the  image-chamber  of  his  soul 

The  days  of  other  years  like  shadows  stole. 

*  *  * 

Wineland  the  glad  discoverers  called  that  shore, 
And  back  the  tidings  of  its  riches  bore ; 
But  soon  returned  with  colonizing  bands,  — 
Men  that  at  home  would  sigh  for  unknown  lands ; 
Men  of  all  weathers,  fit  for  every  toil, 
War,  commerce,  pastime,  peace,  adventure,  spoil ; 
Bold  master-spirits,  where  they  touched  they  gained 
Ascendance,  where  they  fixed  their  foot  they  reigned. 
Both  coasts  they  long  inherited,  though  wide 
Dissevered;   stemming  to  and  fro  the  tide, 
Free  as  the  Syrian  dove  explores  the  sky, 
Their  helm  their  hope,  their  compass  in  their  eye, 
They  found  at  will,  where'er  they  pleased  to  roam, 
The  ports  of  strangers  or  their  northern  home, 
Still  midst  tempestuous  seas  and  zones  of  ice, 
Loved  as  their  own,  their  unlost  Paradise. 


10  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Yet  was  their  Paradise  forever  lost : 

War,  famine,  pestilence,  the  power  of  frost, 

Their  woes  combining,  withered  from  the  earth 

This  late  creation,  like  a  timeless  birth, 

The  fruit  of  age  and  weakness,  forced  to  light, 

Breathing  awhile,  —  relapsing  into  night. 

James  Montgomery. 


N 


ULYSSES  AND  COLUMBUS. 
OT  over  violet  seas  that  rise  and  fall 


With  whispering  winds  beneath  an  eastern  skj, 
Lay  the  mysterious  Island  of  the  Blest, 
Nor  in  the  limits  of  a  pent-up  lake 
Where  timid  seamen  crept  from  isle  to  isle 
Scattered  like  stars  in  heaven,  as  a  child 
Through  the  wide  field  wanders  with  doubting  foot 
By  daisies  led  that  ever  beckon  on; 
But  with  the  western  sun,  'fore  shifting  gales 
Of  hope  and  doubt,  full  many  a  weary  soul 
Set  sail  upon  the  deep,  and  shot  between 
The  twin  tall  pillars,  —  that  sheer  precipice 
From  known  to  mystery,  —  then  into  a  sea 
Where  wave  and  sky  were  blent  with  wreaths  of  cloud, 
Without  a  guide  to  lead,  or  star  to  cheer. 
And  there  he  wandered,  ere  the  storm  came  on 
And  whelmed  his  bark,  yet  in  his  darkest  hour 
Found  —  not  the  shore  he  sought  amidst  the  gloom, 
But  life's  eternal  secret  clear  at  last, 
Life's  inmost  mystery  all  made  bright  in  death. 
And  ages  passed,  and  races  rose  and  fell, 


INTRODUCTORY.  11 

And  from  their  aslies  other  nations  sprang 

Like  flowers  that  draw  life  from  the  past  year's  grave. 

Last  a  strong  soul,  after  long  days  of  strife, 

Toiling  the  fears  within,  the  foes  without, 

Set  sail  from  Spain,  and  groping  in  the  gloom 

After  the  flying  shore,  the  fable  land, 

Stood  bravely  on  in  face  of  sea  and  storm. 

And,  ere  he  won  his  goal,  full  many  a  pledge 

Of  triumph  long  delayed  came  drifting  on 

Tar  o'er  the  darkening  blue,  as  land  grew  near, 

Lurking  amid  a  mass  of  cloudy  sky, 

Low  lying  in  the  far-off  western  wave. 

Then  year  by  year  swept  on,  and  as  they  ran, 

Great  forests  rose  and  crumbled,  and  the  lives 

Of  men  passed  with  them,  while  a  mighty  race 

Was  gathering  slowly,  as  the  atoms  meet 

That  go  to  form  the  framework  of  a  star, 

And  mid  the  crash  of  kingdoms  and  of  throne 

Rising  like  coral  reefs  from  thundering  seas. 

And  British  speech  and  British  laws  were  theirs, 

And  British  princes.     Faithfully  they  served 

Tor  many  a  year,  and  rendered  every  due 

As  it  beseemed  them,  till  an  evil  day 

Came  on  the  rulers,  and  possessed  their  souls 

With  foul  injustice  working  cruel  wrong. 

Then  flamed  our  fathers'  spirit,  and  they  dared ' 

A  struggle  all  uneven,  till  they  broke 

The  tyrant's  chain  and  won  their  human  right, 

Earning  their  freedom  with  free  heart  and  soul. 

Alfred  William  Winterslow  Dale. 


12  POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


COLUMBUS. 

STEER,  bold  mariner,  on  !  albeit  witlings  deride  thee, 
And  the  steersman  drop  idly  his  hand  at  the  helm. 
Ever  and  ever  to  westward!  there  must  the  coast  be 

discovered, 

If  it  but  lie  distinct,  luminous  lie  in  thy  mind. 
Trust  to  the  God  that  leads  thee,  and  follow  the  sea 

that  is  silent; 

Did  it  not  yet  exist,  now  would  it  rise  from  the  flood. 

Nature  with  Genius  stands  united  in  league  everlasting ; 

What  is  promised  by  one,  surely  the  other  performs. 

Friedrich  von  Schiller.     Tr.  Anon. 


VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

WAS  night.     The  moon  o'er  the  wide  wave  dis- 

closed 

Her  awful  face,  and  Nature's  self  reposed, 
When,  slowly  rising  in  the  azure  sky, 
Three  white  sails  shone,  but  to  no  mortal  eye, 
Entering  a  boundless  sea.     In  slumber  cast, 
The  very  ship-boy  on  the  dizzy  mast 
Half  breathed  his  orisons !     Alone  unchanged, 
Calmly,  beneath,  the  great  commander  ranged, 
Thoughtful,  not  sad;  and  as  the  planet  grew, 
His  noble  form,  wrapt  in  his  mantle  blue, 
Athwart  the  deck  a  deepening  shadow  threw. 
"Thee  hath  it  pleased,  —  Thy  will  be  done!"  he  said, 


INTRODUCTORY.  13 

Then  sought  his  cabin;   and,  their  garments  spread, 

Around  him  lay  the  sleeping  as  the  dead, 

When  by  his  lamp  to  that  mysterious  guide 

On  whose  still  counsels  all  his  hopes  relied, 

That  oracle  to  man  in  mercy  given, 

Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  wisdom  is  from  heaven, 

Who  over  sands  and  seas  directs  the  stray, 

And  as  with  God's  own  finger  points  the  way, 

He  turned;   but  what  strange  thoughts  perplexed  his 

soul, 

When,  lo,  no  more  attracted  to  the  pole, 
The  compass,  faithless  as  the  circling  vane, 
Fluttered  and  fixed,  fluttered  and  fixed  again! 
At  length,  as  by  some  unseen  hand  imprest, 
It  sought  with  trembling  energy  —  the  west ! 
"  Ah  no !  "  he  cried,  and  calmed  his  anxious  brow. 
"Ill,  nor  the  signs  of  ill,  'tis  thine  to  show; 
Thine  but  to  lead  me  where  I  wished  to  go ! " 

Columbus  erred  not.     In  that  awful  hour, 
Sent  forth  to  save,  and  girt  with  godlike  power, 
And  glorious  as  the  regent  of  the  sun, 
An  angel  came !     He  spoke,  and  it  was  done  ! 
He  spoke,  and  at  his  call  a  mighty  wind, 
Not  like  the  fitful  blast,  with  fury  blind, 
But  deep,  majestic,  in  its  destined  course, 
Sprung  with  unerring,  unrelenting  force, 
From  the  bright  east.     Tides  duly  ebbed  and  flowed, 
Stars  rose  and  set,   and  new  horizons  glowed ; 
Yet  still  it  blew !     As  with  primeval  sway 
Still  did  its  ample  spirit,  night  and  day, 


14  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Move  on  the  waters !  —  All,  resigned  to  fate, 
Folded  their  arms  and  sate ;   and  seemed  to  wait 
Some  sudden  change;   and  sought,  in  chill  suspense, 
New  spheres  of  being  and  new  modes  of  sense; 
As  men  departing,  though  not  doomed  to  die, 
And  midway  on  their  passage  to  eternity. 
*  *  * 

Still,  as  beyond  this  mortal  life  impelled  . 
By  some  mysterious  energy,  he  held 
His  everlasting  course.     Still  self-possessed, 
High  on  the  deck  he  stood,  disdaining  rest 
(His  amber  chain  the  only  badge  he  bore, 
His  mantle  blue  such  as  his  fathers  wore) ; 
Fathomed,  with  searching  hand,  the  dark  profound, 
And  scattered  hope  and  glad  assurance  round, 
Though,  like  some  strange  portentous  dream,  the  past 
Still  hovered,  and  the  cloudless  sky  o'ercast. 

At  daybreak  might  the  caravels  be  seen 
Chasing  their  shadows  o'er  the  deep  serene; 
Their  burnished  prows  lashed  by  the  sparkling  tide, 
Their  green-cross  standards  waving  far  and  wide. 
And  now  once  more  to  better  thoughts  inclined, 
The  seaman,  mounting,  clamored  in  the  wind. 
The  soldier  told  his  tales  of  love  and  war ; 
The  courtier  sung,  —  sung  to  his  gay  guitar. 
Round,  at  Primero,  sate  a  whiskered  band; 
So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land! 
Leon,  Montalvan  (serving  side  by  side; 
Two  with  one  soul,  —  and  as  they  lived,  they  died) ; 
Vasco,  the  brave,  thrice  found  among  the  slain, 
Thrice,  and  how  soon,  up  and  in  arms  again, 


INTRODUCTORY.  15 

As  soon  to  wish  he  had  been  sought  in  vain, 
Chained  down  in  .Fez,  beneath  the  bitter  thong, 
To  the  hard  bench  and  heavy  oar  so  long ! 
Albert  of  Florence,  who,  at  twilight-time, 
In  my  rapt  ear  poured  Dante's  tragic  rhyme, 
Screened  fcy  the  sail  as  near  the  mast  we  lay, 
Our  nights  illumined  by  the  ocean-spray; 
And  Manfred,  who  espoused  with  jewelled  ring 
Young  Isabel,  then  left  her  sorrowing: 
Lerma  "  the  generous,"  Avila  "  the  proud  " ; 
Velasquez,  Garcia,  through  the  echoing  crowd 
Araced  by  their  mirth,  —  from  Ebro's  classic  shore. 
From  golden  Tajo,  to  return  no  more  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 


COLUMBUS, 

LONG  lay  the  ocean-paths  from  man  concealed; 
Light  came  from  heaven,  —  the   magnet  was  re- 
vealed, 

A  surer  star  to  guide  the  seaman's  eye 
Than  the  pale  glory  of  the  northern  sky; 
Alike  ordained  to  shine  by  night  and  day, 
Through  calm  and  tempest,  with  unsetting  ray; 
Where'er  the  mountains  rise,  the  billows  roll, 
Still  with  strong  impulse  turning  to  the  pole, 
True  as  the  sun  is  to  the  morning  true, 
Though  light  as  film,  and  trembling  as  the  dew. 

Then  man  no  longer  plied  with  timid  oar 
And  failing  heart  along  the  windward  shore; 


16  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Broad  to  the  sky  he  turned  his  fearless  sail, 
Defied  the  adverse,  wooed  the  favoring  gale, 
Bared  to  the  storm  his  adamantine  breast, 
Or  soft  on  ocean's  lap  lay  down  to  rest; 
While,  free  as  clouds  the  liquid  ether  sweep, 
His  white-winged  vessels  coursed  the  unbouifted  deep ; 
From  clime  to  clime  the  wanderer  loved  to  roam, 
The  waves  his  heritage,  the  world  his  home. 

Then  first  Columbus,  with  the  mighty  hand 
Of  grasping  genius,  weighed  the  sea  and  land; 
The  floods  o'erbalanced :   where  the  tide  of  light, 
Day  after  day,  rolled  down  the  gulf  of  night, 
There  seemed  one  waste  of  waters :   long  in  vain 
His  spirit  brooded  o'er  the  Atlantic  main ; 
When,  sudden  as  creation  burst  from  naught, 
Sprang  a  new  world  through  his  stupendous  thought, 
Light,  order,  beauty !      While  his  mind  explored 
The  unveiling  mystery,  his  heart  adored; 
Where'er  sublime  imagination  trod, 
He  heard  the  voice,  he  saw  the  face,  of  God. 

Far  from  the  western  cliffs  he  cast  his  eye, 
O'er  the  wide  ocean  stretching  to  the  sky; 
In  calm  magnificence  the  sun  declined, 
And  left  a  paradise  of  clouds  behind; 
Proud  at  his  feet,  with  pomp  of  pearl  and  gold, 
The  billows  in  a  sea  of  glory  rolled. 

James  Montgomery. 


INTRODUCTORY.  17 


FIRST  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

WHAT  did  the  ocean's  waste  supply 
To  soothe  the  mind  or  please  the  eye? 
The  rising  morn  through  dim  mist  breaking. 
The  flickered  east  with  purple  streaking; 
The  midday  cloud  through  thin  air  flying, 
With  deeper  blue  the  blue  sea  dyeing ; 
Long  ridgy  waves  their  white  manes  rearing, 
And  in  the  broad  gleam  disappearing; 
The  broadened,  blazing  sun  declining, 
And  western  waves  like  fire-floods  shining; 
The  sky's  vast  dome  to  darkness  given, 
And  all  the  glorious  host  of  heaven  I 

Full  oft  upon  the  deck,  while  others  slept, 
To  mark  the  bearing  of  each  well-known  star 
That  shone  aloft  or  on  the  horizon  far, 
The  anxious  chief  his  lonely  vigil  kept. 
The  mournful  wind,  the  hoarse  wave  breaking  near, 
The  breathing  groans  of  sleep,  the  plunging  lead, 
The  steersman's  call,  and  his  own  stilly  tread, 
Are  all  the  sounds  of  night  that  reach  his  ear. 

But  soon  his  dauntless  soul,  which  naught  could  bend,  - 
Nor  hope  delayed  nor  adverse  fate  subdue,  — 
With  a  more  threatening  danger  must  contend 
Than  storm  or  wave,  —  a  fierce  and  angry  crew ! 
"Dearly,"  say  they,  "may  we  those  visions  rue 
Which  lured  us  from  our  native  land, 
A  wretched,  lost,  devoted  band, 


18  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Led  on  by  hope's  delusive  gleam, 
The  victim  of  a  madman's  dream ! 
Nor  gold  shall  e'er  be  ours,  nor  fame; 
Not  even  the  remnant  of  a  name 
On  some  rudeJettered  stone  to  tell 
On  what  strange  coast  our  wreck  befell. 
For  us  no  requiem  shall  be  sung, 
Nor  prayer  be  said,  nor  passing  knell 
In  holy  church  be  rung." 

To  thoughts  like  these  all  forms  give  way 

Of  duty  to  a  leader's  sway; 

And,  as  he  moves,  —  ah  !  wretched  cheer  !  — 

Their  muttered  curses  reach  his  ear. 

But  all  undaunted,  firm,  and  sage, 

He  scorns  their  threats,  yet  thus  he  soothes  their  rage 

"That  to  some  nearing  coast  we  bear, 

How  many  cheering  signs  declare! 

Wayfaring  birds  the  blue  air  ranging, 

Their  shadowy  line  to  blue  air  changing, 

Pass  o'er  our  heads  in  frequent  flocks ; 

While  seaweed  from  the  parent  rocks, 

With  fibry  roots,  but  newly  torn, 

In  wreaths  are  on  the  clear  wave  borne. 

Nay,  has  not  e'en  the  drifting  current  brought 

Things  of  rude  art,  by  human  cunning  wrought  ? 

Be  yet  two  days  your  patience  tried, 

And  if  no  shore  is  then  descried, 

E'en  turn  your  dastard  prows  again, 

And  cast  your  leader  to  the  main." 

And  thus  awhile,  with  steady  hand, 


INTRODUCTORY.  19 

He  kept  in  check  a  wayward  band, 

Who  but  with  half-expressed  disdain 

Their  rebel  spirit  could  restrain. 

So  passed  the  day,  the  night,  the  second  day, 

With  its  red  setting  sun's  extinguished  ray. 

Dark,  solemn  midnight  coped  the  ocean  wide, 
When  from  his  watchful  stand  Columbus  cried, 
"A  light,  a  light!"  —  blest  sounds  that  rang 
In  every  ear.     At  once  they  sprang 
With  haste  aloft,  and,  peering  bright, 
Descried  afar  the  blessed  sight. 

"  It  moves  !  it  slowly  moves  like  ray 
Of  torch  that  guides  some  wanderer's  way ! 
Lo  !  other  lights,  more  distant,  seeming 
As  if  from  town  or  hamlet  streaming  ! 
'T  is  land,  't  is  peopled  land !  man  dwelleth  there, 
And  thou,  O  God  of  heaven,  hast  heard  thy  servant's 
prayer ! " 

Returning  day  gave  to  their  view 

The  distant  shore  and  headlands  blue 

Of  long-sought  land.     Then  rose  on  air 

Loud  shouts  of  joy,  mixed  wildly  strange 

With  voice  of  weeping  and  of  prayer, 

Expressive  of  their  blessed  change 

Erom  death  to  life,  from  fierce  to  kind, 

From  all  that  sinks  to  all  that  elevates  the  mind. 

Those  who,  by  faithless  fear  ensnared, 
Had  their  brave  chief  so  rudely  dared, 


20  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Now,  with  keen  self-upbraiding  stung, 

With  every  manly  feeling  wrung, 

Repentant  tears,  looks  that  entreat, 

Are  kneeling  humbly  at  his  feet : 

"  Pardon  our  blinded,  stubborn  guilt ! 

0,  henceforth  make  us  what  thou  wilt ! 

Our  hands,  our  hearts,  our  lives,  are  thine, 

Thou  wondrous  man,  led  on  by  power  divine ! " 

Columbus  led  them  to  the  shore 
Which  ship  had  never  touched  before ; 
And  there  he  knelt  upon  the  strand 
To  thank  the  God  of  sea  and  land ; 
And  there,  with  mien  and  look  elate, 
Gave  welcome  to  each  toil-worn  mate. 
And  lured  with  courteous  signs  of  cheer 
The  dusky  natives  gathering  near, 
Who  on  them  gazed  with  wondering  eyes, 
As  missioned  spirits  from  the  skies. 
And  there  did  he  possession  claim 

In  royal  Isabella's  name. 

Joanna  Baillie. 


COLUMBUS  AND  THE  MAYFLOWER. 

0  LITTLE  fleet !  that  on  thy  quest  divine 
Sailedst  from  Palos  one  bright  autumn  morn, 
Say,  has  old  Ocean's  bosom  ever  borne 
A  freight  of  faith  and  hope  to  match  with  thine  ? 

Say,  too,  has  Heaven's  high  favor  given  again 
Such  consummation  of  desire  as  shone 


INTRODUCTORY.  21 

About  Columbus  when  he  rested  on 

The  new-found  world  and  married  it  to  Spain  ? 

Answer,  —  thou  refuge  of  the  freeman's  need, — 
Thou  for  whose  destinies  no  kings  looked  out, 
Nor  sages  to  resolve  some  mighty  doubt,  — 
Thou  simple  Mayflower  of  the  salt-sea  mead ! 

When  thou  wert  wafted  to  that  distant  shore, 
Gay  flowers,  bright  birds,  rich  odors  met  thee  not; 
Stern  Nature  hailed  thee  to  a  sterner  lot,  — 
God  gave  free  earth  and  air,  and  gave  no  more. 

Thus  to  men  cast  in  that  heroic  mould 
Came  empire  such  as  Spaniard  never  knew, 
Such  empire  as  beseems  the  just  and  true; 
And  at  the  last,  almost  unsought,  came  gold. 

But  He  who  rules  both  calm  and  stormy  days 
Can  guard  that  people's  heart,  that  nation's  health, 
Safe  on  the  perilous  heights  of  power  and  wealth, 
As  in  the  straitness  of  the  ancient  ways. 

Lord  Houghton.^ 

THE  INDIANS. 

WE  call  them  savage.     Oh,  be  just ! 
Their  outraged  feelings  scan ; 
A  voice  comes  forth,  —  'tis  from  the  dust, — 

The  savage  was  a  man! 
Think  ye  he  loved  not?     Who  stood  by, 
And  in  his  toils  took  part  ? 


22  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Woman  was  there  to  bless  his  eye,  — 

The  savage  had  a  heart ! 
Think  ye  he  prayed  not?     When  on  high 

He  heard  the  thunders  roll, 
What  bade  him  look  beyond  the  sky? 

The  savage  had  a  soul ! 

I  venerate  the  Pilgrim's  cause, 

Yet  for  the  red  man  dare  to  plead. 

We  bow  to  Heaven's  recorded  laws ; 
He  turned  to  Nature  for  a  creed. 

Beneath  the  pillared  dome 
We  seek  our  God  in  prayer; 

Through  boundless  woods  he  loved  to  roam, 

And  the  Great  Spirit  worshipped  there. 
But  one,  one  fellow-throb  with  us  he  felt; 
To  one  divinity  with  us  he  knelt; 
Freedom  —  the  selfsame  freedom  we  adore  — 
Bade  him  defend  his  violated  shore. 

He  saw  the  cloud,  ordained  to  grow 

And  burst  upon  his  hills  in  woe; 

He  saw  his  people  withering  by, 

Beneath  the  invader's  evil  eye ; 
Strange  feet  were  trampling  on  his  fathers'  bones ; 

At  midnight  hour  he  woke  to  gaze 

Upon  his  happy  cabin's  blaze, 
And  listen  to  his  children's  dying  groans. 

He  saw,  and,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

Gave  his  bold  bosom  to  the  fight ; 

To  tiger-rage  his  soul  was  driven; 

Mercy  was  not  or  sought  or  given; 


INTRODUCTORY.  23 

The  pale  man  from  his  lands  must  fly, — 
He  would  be  free  or  he  would  die. 
Alas  for  them  !  —  their  day  is  o'er, 
Their  fires  are  out  from  hill  and  shore; 
No  more  for  them  the  wild  deer  bounds  ; 
The  plough  is  on  their  hunting-grounds ; 
The  pale  man's  axe  rings  through  their  woods ; 
The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their  floods; 

Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry; 
Their  children,  —  look  !  by  power  oppressed, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west 

Their  children  go  —  to  die  ! 

Charles  Sprague. 

OUR  ABORIGINES. 

I  HEARD  the  forests  as  they  cried 
Unto  the  valleys  green, 
"Where  is  the  red-browed  hunter  race, 

Who  loved  our  leafy  screen, 
Who  humbled  mid  these  dewy  glades 

The  red  deer's  antlered  crown, 
Or  soaring  at  his  highest  noon, 
Struck  the  strong  eagle  down  ?  " 

Then  in  the  zephyr's  voice  replied 

Those  vales,  so  meekly  blest: 
"They  reared  their  dwellings  on  our  side, 

Their  corn  upon  our  breast; 
A  blight  came  down,  a  blast  swept  by, 

The  cone-roofed  cabins  fell; 


24  POEMS    OF   PLA.CES. 

And  where  that  exiled  people  fled, 
It  is  not  ours  to  tell." 

Niagara,  of  the  mountains  gray, 

Demanded,  from  his  throne, 
And  old  Ontario's  billowy  lake 

Prolonged  the  thunder  tone, 
"The  chieftains  at  our  side  who  stood 

Upon  our  christening  day, 
*Who  gave  the  glorious  names  we  bear, 

Our  sponsors,  where  are  they?" 

And  then  the  fair  Ohio  charged 

Her  many  sisters  dear, 
"Show  me  once  more  those  stately  forms 

Within  my  mirror  clear  "  ; 
But  they  replied,  "Tall  barks  of  pride 

Do  cleave  our  waters  blue, 
And  strong  keels  ride  our  farthest  tide, 

But  where  's  their  light  canoe  ?  " 

The  farmer  drove  his  ploughshare  deep ; 

"Whose  bones  are  these?"  said  he. 
"I  find  them  where  my  browsing  sheep 

Roam  o'er  the  upland  lea." 
But  starting  sudden  to  his  path, 

A  phantom  seemed  to  glide, 
A  plume  of  feathers  on  his  head, 

A  quiver  at  his  side. 

He  pointed  to  the  rifled  grave, 
Then  raised  his  hand  on  high, 


INTRODUCTORY.  25 

And  with  a  hollow  groan  invoked 

The  vengeance  of  the  sky. 
O'er  the  broad  realm  so  long  his  own, 

Gazed  with  despairing  ray, 
Then  on  the  mist  that  slowly  curled, 

Fled  mournfully  away. 

Lydia  ftuntley  Sigourney. 


THE  INDIAN  BUMING-GROUND. 

TN  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 
A  I  still  my  old  opinion  keep; 
The  posture  that  we  give  the  dead 
Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands,  — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 
Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 

His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison,  for  a  journey  dressed, 
Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity  that  knows  no  rest. 

His  bow,  for  action  ready  bent, 
And  arrows,  with  a  head  of  stone, 
Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  finer  essence  gone. 

Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  tin's  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit, — 


26  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Observe  the  swelling  turf,  and  say 
They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit. 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 
On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 
(Now  wasted,  half,  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 
Beneath  whose  far-projecting  shade 
(And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 
The  children  of  the  forest  played  ! 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen 
(Pale  Shebab,  with  her  braided  hair) 
And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  vestments  for  the  chase  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer,  a  shade  ! 

And  long  shall  timorous  fancy  see 
The  painted  chief  and  pointed  spear, 
And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here. 

Philip  Freneau. 


INTKODUCTORY.  27 


ON  THE  PEOSPECT  OF  PLANTING   ARTS  AND  LEARNING 
IN  AMERICA. 

rE  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 
Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 
Producing  subjects  worthy  fame. 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true; 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules, 

Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools : 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 

The  first  four  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day; 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 

George  Berkeley. 


28  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


AMERICA. 

THE  name  of  Commonwealth  is  past  and  gone, 
Over  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  globe : 
Venice  is  crushed,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 
A  sceptre,  and  endures  a  purple  robe : 
If  the  free  Switzer  yet  bestrides  alone 
His  chainless  mountains,  'tis  but  for  a  time; 
\  For  tyranny  of  late  has  cunning  grown, 
And,  in  its  own  good  season,  tramples  down 
The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.     One  great  clime, 
Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean 
Are  kept  apart,  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 
Of  Freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for,  and 
Bequeathed,  —  a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 
And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land, 
Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's  motion, 
As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand 
Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science,  — 
Still  one  great  clime,  [in.  full  and  free  defiance, 
Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquered  and  sublime,' 
Above  the  far  Atlantic  !     She  has  taught 
Her  Esau-brethren  that  the  haughty  flag, 
The  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 
May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands  have  bought 
Rights  cheaply  earned  with  blood.     Still,  still,  forever 
Better,  though  each  man's  life-blood  were  a  river 
That  it  should  flow  and  overflow,  than  creep 
Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 
Dammed,  like  the  dull  canal,  with  locks  and  chains, 


"  And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled  "     See  page  29. 


T 

\  * 

:Sprc 


INTRODUCTORY.  29 

And  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep, 
Three  paces,  and  then  faltering :  better  be 
Where  the  extinguished  Spartans  still  are  free, 
In  their  proud  charncl  of  Thermopylae, 
yClian  stagnate  in  our  marsuVor  o'er  the  deep 
lTy,~~and  one  current  to  the'  ocean  add, 
One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had, 
One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee ! 

Lord  Byron. 


AMERICA. 

LOOK  now  abroad,  —  another  race  hasi  filled 
These  populous  borders,  — -wide  the  woocl  recedes, 
-And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled ; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads; 
Streams  numberless^,., that  many  a  fountain  feeds, 
Shine,'-,  disembowered^  and  give  to  sun  and  breeze 
Their  virgin  waters;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies  forth,  that  toward  the  western  seas 
pread,  like  a  rapid  flame  among  the  autumnal  trees. 


Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length, 
Throws  its  last  fetters  off;  and  who  shall  place 
A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 
Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race : 
Tar,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite  space, 
Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light 
Into  the  depths  of  ages :  we  may  trace, 
Distant,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  flight, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 


30  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Europe  is  given  a  prey  to  sterner  fates, 
And  writhes  in  shackles ;  strong  the  arms  that  chain 
To  earth  her  struggling  multitude  of  states; 
She  too  is  strong,  and  might  not  chafe  in  vain 
Against  them,  but  shake  off  the  vampire  train 
That  batten  on  her  blood,  and  break  their  net. 
Yes,  she  shall  look  on  brighter  days,  and  gain 
The  meed  of  worthier  deeds ;  the  moment  set 
To  rescue  and  raise  up,  draws  near  —  but  is  not  yet. 

But  thou,  my  country,  thou  shalt  never  fall, 
But  with  thy  children,  —  thy  maternal  care, 
Thy  lavish  love,  thy  blessings  showered  on  all, — 
These  are  thy  fetters,  —  seas  and  stormy  air 
Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where, 
Among  thy  gallant  sons  that  guard  thee  well, 
Thou  laugh' st  at  enemies:  who  shall  then  declare 
The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy,  in  thy  lap,  the  sons  of  men  shall  dwell  ? 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

AMERICA. 

OH,  who  has  not  heard  of  the  Northmen  of  yore, 
How  flew,  like  the   sea-bird,  their  sails  from  the 

shore ; 

How  westward  they  stayed  not  till,  breasting  the  brine, 
They  hailed  Narragansett,  the  land  of  the  vine  ? 

Then  the  war-songs  of  Hollo,  his  pennon  and  glaive, 
Were  heard  as  they  danced  by  the  moon-lighted  wave, 


INTRODUCTORY.  31 

And  their  golden-haired  wives  bore  them  sons   of  the 

soil, 
While  raged  with  the  redskins  their  feud  and  turmoil. 

And  who  has  not  seen,  mid  the  summer's  gay  crowd, 
That  old  pillared  tower  of  their  fortalice  proud, 
How  it  stands  solid  proof  of  the  sea  chieftains'  reign 
Ere  came  with  Columbus  those  galleys  of  Spain? 

3T  was  a  claim  for  their  kindred  :  an  earnest  of  sway,  — 
By  the  stout-hearted  Cabot  made  good  in  its  day, — 
Of  the  Cross  of  St.  George  on  the  Chesapeake's  tide, 
Where  lovely  Virginia  arose  like  a  bride. 

Came  the  pilgrims  with  Winthrop;  and,  saint  of  the 

West, 

Came  Robert  of  Jamestown,  the  brave  and  the  blest ; 
Came  Smith,  the  bold  rover,  and  Rolfe  —  with  his  ring, 
To  wed  sweet  Matoaka,  child  of  a  king. 

Undaunted  they  came,  every  peril  to  dare, 

Of  tribes  fiercer  far  than  the  wolf  in  his  lair ; 

Of  the  wild   irksome  woods,   where  in  ambush  they 

lay; 
Of  their  terror  by  night  and  their  arrow  by  day. 

And  so  where  our  capes  cleave  the  ice  of  the  poles, 
Where  groves  of  the  orange  scent  sea-coast  and  shoals, 
Where  the  froward  Atlantic  uplifts  its  last  crest, 
Where  the  sun,  when  he  sets,  seeks  the  East  from  the 
West: 


32  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  clime  that  from  ocean  to  ocean  expands, 
The  fields  to  the  snow-drifts  that  stretch  from  the  sands, 
The  wilds  they  have  conquered  of  mountain  and  plain, 
Those  pilgrims  have  made  them  fair  Freedom's  domain. 

And  the  bread  of  dependence  if  prondly  they  spurned, 
'T  was  the  soul  of  their  fathers  that  kindled  and  burned, 
'T  was  the  blood  of  the  Saxon  within  them  that  ran ; 
They  held  —  to  be  free  is  the  birthright  of  man. 

So  oft  the  old  lion,  majestic  of  mane, 

Sees  cubs  of  his  cave  breaking  loose  from  his  reign; 

Unmeet  to  be  his  if  they  braved  not  his  eye, 

He  gave  them  the  spirit  his  own  to  defy. 

Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe. 


THE  OLD  THIRTEEN. 

THE  curtain  rises  on  a  hundred  years,  — 
A  pageant  of  the  olden  time  appears. 
Let  the  historic  muse  her  aid  supply, 
To  note  and  name  each  form  that  passes  by. 
Here  come  the  old  original  Thirteen ! 
Sir  Walter  ushers  in  the  Virgin  Queen; 
Catholic  Mary  follows  her,  whose  land 
Smiles  on  soft  Chesapeake  from  either  strand; 
Then  Georgia,  with  the  sisters  Caroline,  — 
One  the  palmetto  wears,  and  one  the  pine ; 
Next,  she  who  ascertained  the  rights  of  men 
Not  by  the  sword  but  by  the  word  of  Penn ,  - 


INTRODUCTORY.  33 

The  friendly  language  hers,  of  "  thee  "  and  "  thou "  ; 
Then,  she  whose  mother  was  a  thrifty  vrouw,  — 
Mother  herself  of  princely  children  now ; 
And,  sitting  at  her  feet,  the  sisters  twain,  — 
Two  smaller  links  in  the  Atlantic  chain, 
They,  through  those  long  dark  winters,  drear  and  dire, 
"Watched  with  our  Fabius  round  the  bivouac  fire; 
Comes  the  free  mountain  maid,  in  white  and  green; 
One  guards  the  Charter  Oak  with  lofty  mien; 
And  lo !  in  the  plain  beauty  once  she  wore, 
The  pilgrim  mother  from  the  Bay  State  shore; 
And  last,  not  least,  is  Little  Rhody  seen, 
With  face  turned  heavenward,  steadfast  and  serene, — 
She  on  her  anchor,  Hope,  leans,  and  will  ever  lean. 

Charles  Timothy  Brooks. 


THE  OLD  CONTINENTALS. 

IN  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not; 

While  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hailstones  fell  the  plunging 

Cannon  shot ! 

Where  the  files 

Of  the  Isles, 

From  the  smoky  night  encampment, 
Bore  the  banner  of  the  rampant 

Unicorn ; 
And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer, 


34  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Rolled  the  "roll"  of  the  drummer, 
Through  the  morn. 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires  ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  flames  flashing  redly, 

Blazed  the  fires ; 

As  the  swift 

Billows  drift, 

Drove  the  dark  battle  breakers 
O'er  the  green  sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain ; 

And  louder,  louder,  louder, 
Cracked  the  black  gunpowder, 

All  amain ! 

Then  like  smiths  at  their  forges, 
Labored  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers. 

And  the  viflanous  saltpetre 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  our  ears ; 

Like  the  roar 

On  the  shore, 

Rose  the  horse-guards'  clangor, 
As  they  rode  in  roaring  auger 

On  our  flanks; 
And  higher,  higher,  higher, 
Burned  the  old-fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks ! 


INTRODUCTORY.  35 

Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder  cloud, 

And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 

Trumpet  loud ! 

And  the  blue 

Bullets  flew, 

And  the  trooper  jackets  redden 
At  the  touch  of  the  leaden 

Rifle's  breath ! 

And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder, 
Roared  the  iron  six-pounder, 

Hurling  death  ! 

Anonymou*. 

THE  UNITED  STATES, 

SEVEN  years  long  was  the  bow 
Of  battle  bent,  and  the  heightening 
Storm-heaps  convulsed  with  the  throe 
Of  their  uncontainable  lightning; 
Seven  years  long  heard  the  sea 
Crash  of  navies  and  wave-borne  thunder ; 
Then  drifted  the  cloud-rack  a-lee, 
And  new  stars  were  seen,  a  world's  wonder; 
Each  by  her  sisters  made  bright, 
All  binding  all  to  their  stations, 
Cluster  of  manifold  light 
Startling  the  old  constellations : 
Men  looked  up  and  grew  pale  : 


36  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Was  it  a  comet  or  star> 
Omen  of  blessing  or  bale. 
Hung  o'er  the  ocean  afar? 

Stormy  the  day  of  her  birth : 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong, 
She,  the  last  ripeness  of  earth, 
Beautiful,  prophesied  long? 
Stormy  the  days  of  her  prime: 
Hers  are  the  pulses  that  beat 
Higher  for  perils  sublime, 
Making  them  fawn  at  her  feet. 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  strong? 
Was  she  not  born  of  the  wise  ? 
Daring  and  counsel  belong 
Of  right  to  her  confident  eyes  : 
Human  and  motherly  they, 
Careless  of  station  or  race: 
Hearken!  her  children  to-day 
Shout  for  the  joy  of  her  face. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

ON  primal  rocks  she  wrote  her  name ; 
Her  towers  were  reared  on  holy  graves; 
The  golden  seed  that  bore  her  came 

Swift-winged  with  prayer  o'er  ocean  waves. 

The  Forest  bowed  his  solemn  crest, 
And  open  flung  his  sylvan  doors  ;• 


INTRODUCTORY.  37 

Meek  Rivers  led  the  appointed  guest 
To  clasp  the  wide-embracing  shores ; 

Till,  fold  by  fold,  the  broidered  land 
To  swell  her  virgin  vestments  grew, 

While  sages,  strong  in  heart  and  hand, 
Her  virtue's  fiery  girdle  drew. 

0  Exile  of  the  wrath  of  kings ! 

0  Pilgrim  Ark  of  Liberty! 
The  refuge  of  divinest  things, 

Their  record  must  abide  in  thee ! 

First  in  the  glories  of  thy  front 

Let  the  crown-jewel,  Truth,  be  found; 

Thy  right  hand  fling,  with  generous  wont, 
Love's  happy  chain  to  farthest  bound ! 

Let  Justice,  with  the  faultless  scales, 
Hold  fast  the  worship  of  thy  sons; 

Thy  Commerce  spread  her  shining  sails 
Where  no  dark  tide  of  rapine  runs  ! 

So  link  thy  ways  to  those  of  God, 

So  follow  firm  the  heavenly  laws, 
That  stars  may  greet  thee,  warrior-browed, 

And  storm-sped  angels  hail  thy  cause  ! 

O  Laud,  the  measure  of  our  prayers, 
Hope  of  the  world  in  grief  and  wrong, 

Be  thine  the  tribute  of  the  years, 

The  gift  of  Faith,  the  crown  of  Song ! 

Julia  Ward  How*. 


38  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


THE  EMIGRANTS. 

I  CANNOT  take  my  eyes  away 
From  you,  ye  busy,  bustling  band. 
Your  little  all  to  see  you  lay, 

Each,  in  the  waiting  seaman's  hand ! 

Ye  men,  who  from  your  necks  set  down 
The  heavy  basket,  on  the  earth, 

Of  bread  from  German  corn,  baked  brown 
By  German  wives,  on  German  hearth! 

And  you,  with  braided  queues  so  neat, 
Black-Forest  maidens,  slim  and  brown, 

How  careful  on  the  sloop's  green  seat 
You  set  your  pails  and  pitchers  down ! 

Ah !  oft  have  home's  cool,  shady  tanks 
These  pails  and  pitchers  filled  for  you: 

On  far  Missouri's  silent  banks 

Shall  these  the  scenes  of  home  renew  :  — 

The  stone-rimmed  fount  in  village  street, 
That,  as  ye  stooped,  betrayed  your  smiles ; 

The  hearth  and  its  familiar  seat ; 
The  mantel  and  the  pictured  tiles. 

Soon,  in  the  far  and  wooded  West, 

Shall  log-house  walls  therewith  be  graced; 

Soon  many  a  tired  and  tawny  guest 

Shall  sweet  refreshment  from  them  taste. 


INTRODUCTORY.  39 

From  them  shall  drink  the  Cherokee, 
Faint  with  the  hot  and  dusty  chase; 

No  more  from  German  vintage  ye 

Shall  bear  them  home,  in  leaf-crowned  grace. 

Oh,  say,  why  seek  ye  other  lands  ? 

The  Neckar's  vale  hath  wine  and  corn; 
Full  of  dark  firs  the  Schwarzwald  stands ; 

In  Spessart  rings  the  Alp-herd's  horn. 

Ah !  in  strange  forests  how  ye  '11  yearn 
For  the  green  mountains  of  your  home, 

To  Deutschland's  yellow  wheatfields  turn, 
In  spirit  o'er  her  vine-hills  roam  ! 

How  will  the  form  of  days  grown  pale 

In  golden  dreams  float  softly  by! 
Like  some  unearthly,  mystic  tale, 

'Twill  stand  before  fond  memory's  eye. 

The  boatman  calls  !  go  hence  in  peace  ! 

God  bless  ye,  man  and  wife  and  sire ! 
Bless  all  your  fields  with  rich  increase, 

And  crown  each  true  heart's  pure  desire ! 

Ferdinand  Freiligrath.     Tr.  C.  T.  Brooks 


THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 

"HOUR  hundred  thousand  men, 
-I-    The  brave,  the  good,  the  true, 
In  tangled  wood,  in  mountain  glen, 
On  battle  plain,  in  prison  pen, 


40  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Lie  dead  for  me  and  you ! 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Have  made  our  ransomed  soil  their  grave, 

For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

In  many  a  fevered  swamp, 

By  many  a  black  bayou, 
In  many  a  cold  and  frozen  camp, 
The  weary  sentinel  ceased  his  tramp, 

And  died  for  me  and  you ! 
From  Western  plain  to  ocean  tide 
Are  stretched  the  graves  of  those  who  died 

For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 

Their  ready  swords  they  drew, 
And  poured  their  life-blood,  like  the  rain, 
A  home,  a  heritage  to  gain, 

To  gain  for  me  and  you! 
Our  brothers  mustered  by  our  side, 
They  marched,  and  fought,  and  bravely  died, 

For  me  and  you  ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

Up  many  a  fortress  wall 

They  charged,  —  those  boys  in  blue, — 
Mid  surging  smoke  and  volleyed  ball, 
The  bravest  were  the  first  to  fall ! 

To  fall  for  me  and  you ! 


"  In  many  a  fevered  swamp.5'    See  page  40. 


INTRODUCTORY.  41 

Those  noble  men,  —  the  Nation's  pride,  — 
Four  hundred  thousand  men  have  died, 

Tor  me  and  you  ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

In  treason's  prison-hold 

Their  martyr  spirits  grew 
To  stature  like  the  saints  of  old, 
While,  amid  agonies  untold, 

They  starved  for  me  and  you ! 
The  good,  the  patient,  and  the  tried, 
Four  hundred  thousand  men  have  died, 

For  me  and  you! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

A  debt  we  ne'er  can  pay 

To  them  is  justly  due, 
And  to  the  Nation's  latest  day 
Our  children's  children  still  shall  say, 

"  They  died  for  me  and  you  ! " 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Made  this  our  ransomed  soil  their  grave, 

For  me  and  you  ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

Anonymous. 

THE  SHIP  OF  STATE. 

THOU,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 


42  POEMS    OP   PLACES. 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

JT  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 

'T  is  but  the  napping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  "are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


NEW    ENGLAND 


INTRODUCTORY. 


MAINE. 

FAR  in  the  sunset's  mellow  glory, 
Far  in  the  daybreak's  pearly  bloom, 
Fringed  by  ocean's  foamy  surges, 
Belted  in  by  woods  of  gloom, 
Stretch  thy  soft,  luxuriant  borders, 
Smile  thy  shores,  in  hill  and  plain, 
Flower-enamelled,  ocean-girdled, 
Green  bright  shores  of  Maine. 

Rivers  of  surpassing  beauty 
From  thy  hemlock  woodlands  flow, — 
Androscoggin  and  Penobscot, 
Saco,  chilled  by  northern  snow; 
These  from  many  a  lowly  valley 
Thick  by  pine-trees  shadowed  o'er, 
Sparkling  from  their  ice-cold  tributes 
To  the  surges  of  thy  shore. 


44  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Bays  resplendent  as  the  heaven, 
Starred  and  gemmed  by  thousand  isles, 
Gird  thee,  —  Casco  with  its  islets, 
Quoddy  with  its  dimpled  smiles  ; 
O'er  them  swift  the  fisher's  shallop 
And  tall  ships  their  wings  expand, 
While  the  smoke-flag  of  the  steamer 
Flaunteth  out  its  cloudy  streamer, 
Bound  unto  a  foreign  strand. 

Bright  from  many  a  rocky  headland, 
Fringed  by  sands  that  shine  like  gold, 
Gleams  the  lighthouse  white  and  lonely, 
Grim  as  some  baronial  hold. 
Bright  by  many  an  ocean  valley 
Shaded  hut  and  village  shine; 
Roof  and  steeple,  weather-beaten, 

Stained  by  ocean's  breath  of  brine. 

Isaac  McLellan,. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

1815. 

GOD  bless  New  Hampshire! — from  her  granite  peaks 
Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting  South 

For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain  has  broken, — 
Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her  mouth, 

And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time  spoken! 
O  all  undreamed-of,  all  unhoped-for  changes!  — 
The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe ; 


INTRODUCTORY.  45 

To  all  liis  biddings,  from  her  mountain  ranges, 
New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant  No! 

Who  is  it  now  despairs?     0  faint  of  heart, 

Look  upward  to  those  Northern  mountains  cold, 
Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  unrolled, 

And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier  part! 

All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of  God's  blessing 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of  fight; 

Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  pressing, 
Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the  right! 

Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts!  —  Be  firm,  be  true: 

What  one  brave  state  hath  done,  can  ye  not  also  do? 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


B1 


VERMONT. 

>UT  what  to  us  are  centuries  dead, 
And  rolling  years  forever  fled, 
Compared  with  thee,  0  grand  and  fair 
Vermont,  —  our  goddess  mother? 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  thy  verdant  hills, 
Fresh  with  the  freshness  of  mountain  rills, 
Pure  as  the  breath  of  the  fragrant  pine, 
Glad  with  the  gladness  of  youth  divine, 
Serenely  thou  sittest  throned  to-day 
Where  the  free  winds  that  round  thee  play 
Rejoice  in  thy  wave  of  sun-bright  hair, 

O  thou,  our  glorious  mother! 
Rejoice  in  thy  beautiful  strength  and  say, 
Earth  holds  not  such  another! 


46  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Thou  art  not  old  with  thy  hundred  years, 

Nor  worn  with  care,  or  toil,  or  tears, 

But  all  the  glow  of  the  summer  time 

Is  thine  to-day  in  thy  glorious  prime  ! 

Thy  brow  is  fair  as  the  winter  snows, 

With  a  stately  calm  in  its  still  repose  ; 

While  the  breath  of  the  rose  the  wild  bee  sips, 

Half  mad  with  joy,  cannot  eclipse 

The  marvellous  sweetness  of  thy  lips ; 

And  the  deepest  blue  of  the  laughing  skies 

Hides  in  the  depths  of  thy  fearless  eyes, 

Gazing  afar  over  land  and  sea 

Wherever  thy  wandering  children  be ! 

Fold  on  fold, 

Over  thy  form  of  grandest  mould, 
Floweth  thy  robe  of  forest  green, 
Now  light,  now  dark,  in  its  emerald  sheen. 
Its  broidered  hem  is  of  wild-flowers  rare, 
With  feathery  fern-fronds  light  as  air 
Fringing  its  borders.     In  thy  hair 
Sprays  of  the  pink  arbutus  twine, 
And  the  curling  rings  of  the  wild  grape-vine. 
Thy  girdle  is  woven  of  silver  streams; 
Its  clasp  with  the  opaline  lustre  gleams 
Of  a  Like  asleep  in  the  sunset  beams; 

And,  half  concealing 

And  half  revealing, 
Floats  over  all  a  veil  of  mist 

Pale  tinted  with  rose  and  amethyst! 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 


INTRODUCTORY.  47 


MASSACHUSETTS.  1 

THE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

*1 
Rough,  bleak,  and  hard,\our  little  State 

^Ls  i  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait  ; 


low7  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone  ! 

From  autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain; 
Prom  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 
Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health  ; 
And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock  ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause  i 


48  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 

While  near  her  school  the  church-spire  stands; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 

While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the  school. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


RHODE  ISLAND. 

FROM  that  far  island  in  the  midland  sea, 
Where  Rhodian  art  wrought  out  the  world's  surprise, 
Did  our  own  Eden  island's  name  arise, 
And  then,  at  last,  the  State's  it  grew  to  be. 

Loved  of  all  generous  souls  her  Pounder's  name; 
And  forth  from  her  what  stalwart  men  have  sprung! 
Gallant  in  battle,  eloquent  of  tongue, 
Philanthropist  and  soldier  give  her  fame. 

Of  seven  and  thirty,  this  the  smallest  State, 
And  yet  how  powerful  and  how  populous ! 
Where  will  and  deed,  like  hers,  are  valorous, 
To  narrow  bounds  is  set  how  large  a  fate ! 

No  steadier  brilliance  has  been  thrown  afar 
Throughout  our  history's  every  darkest  night 
Than  hers,  —  how  lustrous  and  how  wide  her  light, 
Though  of  the  Nation's  cluster,  smallest  star ! 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


CONNECTICUT. 

AND  still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 
That  murmurs  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave; 
'Tis  a  rough  land  of  earth  and  stone  and  tree, 

Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave ; 
Where  thoughts  and  tongues  and  hands  are  bold  and 

free, 

And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave ; 
And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  Heaven  they  pray, 
Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted  —  right  or  wrong  — 
And  to  their  laws,  denominated  blue 

(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  belong); 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win,  —  like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred,  —  the  San  Marino  of  the  west. 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year: 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but,  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear: 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things ;   and  should  Park  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they  'd  meet  him  with  —  We  know. 


50  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 

And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why; 
Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 

And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty ; 
A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  nattering  none. 

Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die: 
All  —  but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 
With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,   pence,  and  ped- 
dling. 

*  *  * 

Hers  is  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 

Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathayan  vales, 
The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 

Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 
Of  Florence  and  the  Arno;   yet  the  wing 

Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 
Through  sun  and  snow,  and  in  the  autumn  time 
Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

Her    clear,    warm    heaven  at  noon, — the    mist    that 
shrouds 

Her  twilight  hills,  —  her  cool  and  starry  eves, 
The  glorious  splendor  of  her  sunset  clouds, 

The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 
Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 

Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 
And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 
The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love, 
Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power; 


"  And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end."    See  page  61. 


INTRODUCTORY.  51 

The  maiden,  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove; 
The  mother,  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 

Be,  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour, 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To   the   green  land   I  sing,   then  wake;    you'll  find 
them  there. 

Fitz-  Greene  Ilalleck. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 

A  NNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
•t\-  Arrives  the  snow  ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage ;  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 


55  fOEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs ;  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


SNOW-BOUND. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hilla  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east;  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 


INTRODUCTORY.  53 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows; 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows, 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm, 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow; 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on: 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 


54  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below, — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes;  strange  domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 

Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


OUR  NEIGHBOR. 

OLD  neighbor,  for  how  many  a  year 
The  same  horizon,  stretching  here, 
Has  held  us  in  its  happy  bound 
Prom  Rivermouth  to  Ipswich  Sound ! 
How  many  a  wave-washed  day  we've  seen 
Above  that  low  horizon  lean, 
And  marked  within  the  Merrimack 
The  selfsame  sunset  reddening  back, 


INTBODUCTORY.  55 

Or  in  the  Po wow's  shining  stream, 
That  silent  river  of  a  dream ! 

Where  Craneneck  o'er  the  woody  gloom 
Lifts  her  steep  mile  of  apple-bloom; 
Where  Salisbury  Sands,  in  yellow  length, 
With  the  great  breakers  measure  strength; 
Where  Artichoke  in  shadow  slides, 
The  lily  on  her  painted  tides,  — 
There's  naught  in  the  enchanted  view 
That  does  not  seem  a  part  of  you: 
Your  legends  hang  on  every  hill, 
Your  songs  have  made  it  dearer  still. 

Yours  is  the  river-road ;  and  yours 
Are  all  the  mighty  meadow  floors 
Where  the  long  Hampton  levels  lie 
Alone  between  the  sea  and  sky. 
Sweeter  in  rollymill  shall  blow 
The  Mayflowers,  that  you  loved  them  so; 
Prouder  Deer  Island's  ancient  pines 
Toss  to  their  measure  in  your  lines; 
And  purpler  gleam  old  Appledore, 
Because  your  foot  has  trod  her  shore. 

Still  shall  the  great  Cape  wade  to  meet 
The  storms  that  fawn  about  her  feet, 
The  summer  evening  linger  late 
In  many-rivered  Stackyard- Gate, 
When  we,  when  all  your  people  here, 
Have  fled.     But,  like  the  atmosphere, 


56  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

You  still  the  region  shall  surround, 
The  spirit  of  the    sacred  ground, 
Though  you  have  risen,  as  mounts  the  star, 
Into  horizons  vaster  far! 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford. 


NEW   ENGLAND 


Abington,  Mass. 

THE  OLD  MILL. 

BESIDE  the  stream  the  grist-mill  stands, 
With  bending  roof  and  leaning  wall; 
So  old,  that  when  the  winds  are  wild, 

The  miller  trembles  lest  it  fall : 
And  yet  it  baffles  wind  and  rain, 
Our  brave  old  Mill!   and  will  again. 

Its  dam  is  steep,  and  hung  with  weeds : 
The  gates  are  up,  the  waters  pour, 

And  tread  the  old  wheel's  slippery  round, 
The  lowest  step  forevermore. 

Methinks  they  fume,  and  chafe  with  ire, 

Because  they  cannot  climb  it  higher. 

Prom  morn  to  night  in  autumn  time, 

When  harvests  fill  the  neighboring  plains, 

Up  to  the  mill  the  farmers  drive, 
And  back  anon  with  loaded  wains: 


58  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  when  the  children  come  from  school 
They  stop,  and  watch  its  foamy  pool. 

The  mill  inside  is  small  and  dark; 

But  peeping  in  the  open  door 
You  see  the  miller  flitting  round, 

The  dusty  bags  along  the  floor, 
The  whirling  shaft,  the  clattering  spout, 
And  the  yellow  meal  a-pouring  out ! 

All  day  the  meal  is  floating  there, 

Rising  and  falling  in  the  breeze; 
And  when  the  sunlight  strikes  its  mist 

It  glitters  like  a  swarm  of  bees : 
Or  like  the  cloud  of  smoke  and  light 
Above  a  blacksmith's  forge  at  night. 

I  love  our  pleasant,  quaint  old  Mill, 

It  still  recalls  my  boyish  prime; 
'T  is  changed  since  then,  and  so  am  I, 

We  both  have  known  the  touch  of  time: 
The  mill  is  crumbling  in  decay, 
And  I  —  my  hair  is  early  gray. 

I  stand  beside  the  stream  of  Life, 
And  watch  the  current  sweep  along: 

And  when  the  flood-gates  of  my  heart 
Are  raised  it  turns  the  wheel  of  Song: 

But  scant,  as  yet,  the  harvest  brought 

From  out  the  golden  fields  of  Thought ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


ANDOVEE.  59 

Andover,  Mass. 

THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

MY  cheek  was  bare  of  adolescent  down 
When  first  I  sought  the  Academic  town: 
Slow  rolls  the  coach  along  the  dusty  road, 
Big  with  its  filial  and  parental  load ; 
The  frequent  hills,  the  lonely  woods  are  past, 
The  school-boy's  chosen  home  is  reached  at  last. 
I  see  it  now,  the  same  unchanging  spot, 
The  swinging  gate,  the  little  garden-plot, 
The  narrow  yard,  the  rock  that  made  its  floor, 
The  flat,  pale  house,  the  knocker-garnished  door, 
The  small,  trim  parlor,  neat,  decorous,  chill, 
The  strange,  new  faces,  kind,  but  grave  and  still; 
Two,  creased  with  age,  —  or  what  I  then  called  age,  — 
Life's  volume  open  at  its  fiftieth  page; 
One  a  shy  maiden's,  pallid,'  placid,  sweet 
As  the  first  snow-drop  which  the  sunbeams  greet ; 
One  the  last  nursling's ;  slight  she  was,  and  fair, 
Her  smooth  white  forehead  warmed  with  auburn  hair. 
*  *  * 

Brave,  but  with  effort,  had  the  school-boy  come 
To  the  cold  comfort  of  a  stranger's  home ; 
How  like  a  dagger  to  my  sinking  heart 
Came  the  dry  summons,  "It  is  time  to  part; 
"  Good-by  !  "   "  Goo-ood-by  !  "  one  fond  maternal  kiss. 
Homesick  as  death !     Was  ever  pang  like  this  ? 


60  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Too  young  as  yet  with  willing  feet  to  stray 
From  the  tame  fireside,  glad  to  get  away,  — 
Too  old  to  let  my  watery  grief  appear,  — 
And  what  so  bitter  ^as  a  swallowed  tear  ! 

*  *  * 

The  morning  came;  I  reached  the  classic  hall; 
A  clock-face  eyed  me,  staring  from  the  wall ; 
Beneath  its  hands  a  printed  line  I  read  : 
"Youth  is  life's  seed-time";  so  the  clock-face  said; 
Some  took  its  counsel,  as  the  sequel  showed,  — 
Sowed  —  their  wild  oats,  and  reaped  as  they  had  sowed. 

How  all  comes  back  !  the  upward  slanting  floor,  — 
The  masters'  thrones  that  flank  the  central  door,  — 
The  long,  outstretching  alleys  that  divide 
The  rows  of  desks  that  stand  on  either  side, — 
The  staring  boys,  a  face  to  every  desk, 
Bright,  dull,  pale,  blooming,  common,  picturesque. 

Grave  is  the  Master's  look;  his  forehead  wears 
Thick  rows  of  wrinkles,  prints  of  worrying  cares; 
Uneasy  lie  the  heads  of  all  that  rule, 
His  most  of  all  whose  kingdom  is  a  school. 
Supreme  he  sits;  before  the  awful  frown 
That  bends  his  brows  the  boldest  eye  goes  down; 
Not  more  submissive  Israel  heard  and  saw 
At  Sinai's  foot  the  Giver  of  the  Law. 

Less  stern  he  seems,  who  sits  in  equal  state 
On  the  twin  throne  and  shares  the  empire's  weight ; 
Around  his  lips  the  subtle  life  that  plays 
Steals  quaintly  forth  in  many  a  jesting  phrase ; 
A  lightsome  nature,  not  so  hard  to  chafe, 
Pleasant  when  pleased ;  rough-handled,  not  so  safe ; 


ANDOVER.  61 

Some  tingling  memories  vaguely  I  recall, 
But  to  forgive  liim.     God  forgive  us  all ! 

One  yet  remains,  whose  well-remembered  name 
Pleads  in  my  grateful  heart  its  tender  claim; 
His  was  the  charm  magnetic,  the  bright  look 
That  sheds  its  sunshine  on  the  dreariest  book; 
A  loving  soul  to  every  task  he  brought 
That  sweetly  mingled  with  the  lore  he  taught; 
Sprung  from  a  saintly  race  that  never  could 
From  youth  to  age  be  anything  but  good, 
His  few  brief  years  in  holiest  labors  spent, 
Earth  lost  too  soon  the  treasure  heaven  had  lent. 
Kindest  of  teachers,  studious  to  divine 
Some  hint  of  promise  in  my  earliest  line, 
These  faint  and  faltering  words  thou  canst  not  hear 
Throb  from  a  heart  that  holds  thy  memory  dear. 

As  to  the  traveller's  eye  the  varied  plain 
Shows  through  the  window  of  the  flying  train, 
A  mingled  landscape,  rather  felt  than  seen, 
A  gravelly  bank,  a  sudden  flash  of  green, 
A  tangled  wood,  a  glittering  stream  that  flows 
Through  the  cleft  summit  where  the  cliff  once  rose, 
All  strangely  blended  in  a  hurried  gleam, 
Rock,  wood,  waste,  meadow,  village,  hillside,  stream, — 
So,  as  we  look  behind  us,  life  appears, 
Seen  through  the  vista  of  our  bygone  years. 
*  *  * 

Oliver  Wendell  Holme*. 


62  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Arlington,  Mass. 

MENOTOMY  LAKE  (SPY  POND). 

THERE'S  nothing  so  sweet  as  a  morning  in  May, 
And  few  things  so  fair  as  the  gleam  of  glad  water ; 
Spring  leaps  from  the  brow  of  old  Winter  to-day, 
Full-formed,  like  the  fabled  Olympian's  daughter. 

A  breath  out  of  heaven  came  down  in  the  night, 
Dispelling  the  gloom  of  the  sullen  northeasters; 

The  air  is  all  balm,  and  the  lake  is  as  bright 

As   some  bird  in  brave  plumage  that    ripples   and 
glisters. 

The  enchantment  is  broken  which  bound  her  so  long, 
And  Beauty,  that  slumbered,  awakes  and  remembers ; 

Love  bursts  into  being,  joy  breaks  into  song, 

In  a  glory  of  blossoms  life  flames  from  its  embers. 

I  row  by  steep  woodlands,  I  rest  on  my  oars 

Under  banks  deep-embroidered  with  grass  and  young 
clover ; 

Far  round,  in  and  out,  wind  the  beautiful  shores,  — 
The  lake  in  the  midst,  with  the  blue  heavens  over. 

The  world  in  its  mirror  hangs  dreamily  bright; 

The  patriarch  clouds  in  curled  raiment,  that  lazily 
Lift  their  bare  foreheads  in  dazzling  white  light, 

In  that  deep  under-sky  glimmer  softly  and  hazily. 


ARLINGTON.  63 

Far  over  the  trees,  or  in  glimpses  between,     . 

Peer  the  steeples  and  half-hidden  roofs  of  the  village. 
Here  lie  the  broad  slopes  in  their  loveliest  green; 

There,  crested  with  orchards  or  checkered  with  tillage. 

There  the  pines,  tall  and  black,  in  the  blue  morning  air ; 

The  warehouse  of  ice,  a  vast  windowless  castle ; 
The  ash  and  the  sycamore,  shadeless  and  bare ; 

The  elm-boughs  in  blossom,  the  willows  in  tassel. 

In  golden  effulgence  of  leafage  and  blooms, 
Par  along,  overleaning,  the  sunshiny  willows 

Advance  like  a  surge  from  the  grove's  deeper  glooms,  — 
The  first  breaking  swell  of  the  summer's  green  billows. 

Scarce  a  tint  upon  hornbeam  or  sumach  appears, 
The  arrowhead  tarries,  the  lily  still  lingers; 

But  the  cat-tails  are  piercing  the  wave  with  their  spears, 
And  the  fern  is  unfolding  its  infantile  fingers. 

Down  through  the  dark  evergreens  slants  the  mild  light : 
I  know  every  cove,  every  moist  indentation, 

Where  mosses  and  violets  ever  invite 

To  some  still  unexperienced,  fresh  exploration. 

The  mud-turtle,  sunning  his  shield  on  a  log, 

Slides  off  with  a  splash  as  my  paddle  approaches ; 

Beside  the  green  island  I  silence  the  frog, 

In  warm,  sunny  shallows  I  startle  the  roaches. 

I  glide  under  branches  where  rank  above  rank 
From  the  lake  grow  the  trees,  bending  over  its  bosom ; 


64  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Or  lie  in  my  boat  on  some  flower-starred  bank, 

And  drink  in  delight  from  each  bird-song  and  blossom. 

Above  me  the  robins  are  building  their  nest; 

The  finches  are  here,  —  singing  throats  by  the  dozen ; 
The  catbird,  complaining,  or  mocking  the  rest; 

The  wing-spotted  blackbird,  sweet  bobolink's  consin. 

With  rapture  I  watch,  as  I  loiter  beneath, 

The  small  silken  tufts  on  the  boughs  of  the  beeches, 

Each  leaf-cluster  parting  its  delicate  sheath, 
As  it  gropingly,  yearningly  opens  and  reaches ; 

Like  soft-winged  things  coming  forth  from  their  shrouds. 

The  bees  have  forsaken  the  maples'  red  flowers 
And  gone  to  the  willows,  whose  luminous  clouds 

Drop  incense  and  gold  in  impalpable  showers. 

The  bee-peopled  odorous  boughs  overhead, 

With  fragrance  and  murmur  the  senses  delighting ; 

The  lake-side,  gold-laced  with  the  pollen  they  shed 
At  the  touch  of  a  breeze  or  a  small  bird  alighting; 

The  myriad  tremulous  pendants  that  stream 

From  the  hair  of  the  birches,  —  O  group  of  slim  graces, 

That  see  in  the  water  your  silver  limbs  gleam, 
And  lean  undismayed  over  infinite  spaces  !  — 

The  bold  dandelions  embossing  the  grass ; 

On  upland  and  terrace  the  fruit-gardens  blooming ; 
The  wavering,  winged,  happy  creatures  that  pass,  — 

White  butterflies  flitting,  and  bumblebees  booming; 


ASSABET,    THE    RIVER.  65 

The  crowing  of  cocks  and  the  bellow  of  kine ; 

Light,  color,  and  all  the  delirious  lyrical 
Bursts  of  bird- voices  ;   life  filled  with  new  wine,  — 

Every  motion  and  change  in  this  beautiful  miracle, 

Springtime  and  Maytime,  —  revive  in  my  heart 
All  the   springs   of  my  youth,  with  their  sweetness 

and  splendor: 

O  years,  that  so  softly  take  wing  and  depart ! 
0  perfume !   0  memories  pensive  and  tender  ! 
*  *  * 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


Assabet,  the  River,  Mass. 

FLOATING  HEARTS. 

ONE  of  Indian  summer's  most  perfect  days 
Is  dreamily  dying  in  golden  haze; 
Fair  Assabet  blushes  in  rosy  bliss, 
Reflecting  the  sun's  warm  good-night  kiss. 
Through  a  fleet  of  leaf-barques  gold  and  brown 
From  the  radiant  maples  shaken  down, 
By  the  ancient  hemlocks  grim  and  gray, 
Our  boat  drifts  slowly  on  its  way; 
Down  past  Egg  Rock  and  the  meadows  wide, 
'Neath  the  old  red  bridge  we  slowly  glide, 
Till  we  see  the  Minute-man  strong  and  grand, 
And  the  moss-grown  manse  in  the  orchard  land. 


0  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

The  boat  is  as  full  as  a  boat  should  be, 

Just  nobody  in  it  but  you  and  me. 

As  brown  as  the  leaves  are  her  beautiful  eyes, 

And  as  graceful  her  hand  on  the  water  lies 

As  she  catches  the  leaves  which  languid  float 

On  the  lazy  current  along  the  boat. 

Now  she  asks  its  name  as  she  tears  one  apart  — 

"Eair  lady,  that  is  a  'floating  heart/" 

Sad  wrecks  of  years  have  drifted  down 
In  the  dreamless  ocean  to  sink  and  drown, 
Since  the  beautiful  eyes  saw  that  lovely  night 
And  haloed  the  river  with  visions  bright; 
But  the  floating  heart  that  was  caught  that  day 
Has  never  been  able  to  get  away. 

George  Bradford  Bartlett. 


Bearcamp,  the  River,  N.  H. 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEAECAMP. 

A  GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 
Of  hills,  the  river  runs, 
As  down  its  long,  green  valleys  falls 

The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed, 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 
The  hurry  of  the  hill, 


BEARCAMP,    THE    RIVER.  67 

Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green, 

Erom  curve  to  curve  it  slips : 
The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 

Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 

A  waif  from  Carroll's  wildest  hills, 

Unstoried  and  unknown ; 
The  ursine  legend  of  its  name 

Prowls  on  its  banks  alone. 
Yet  flowers  as  fair  its  slopes  adorn 

As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 
Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies, 

By  Spenser's  Mulla  grew; 
And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 

Its  mountain-cradle  shows, — 
The  gold  against  the  amethyst, 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung, 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain-wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 
How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old ! 

No  longer  granite-browed, 
They  melt  in  rosy  mist ;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud ; 
The  valley  holds  its  breath ;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled : 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 


68  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this : 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 
What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair? 
What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings  fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 
What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 

To  those  of  earth  stoops  down? 
Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 

On  Ida's  snowy  crown ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky; 

The  golden  water  pales; 
And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
I  go  the  common  way  of  all : 

The  sunset-fires  will  burn, 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain-pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 
*  *  * 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


BETHLEHEM. BEVERLY.  69 

Bethlehem,  N.  H. 

MOUNT  AGASSIZ. 

T)EFORE  this  mountain,  bore  his  well-loved  name 

-D  Whose  greatness  runs  through  both  the  hemispheres, 

Whose  life-work,  after  death,  but  swells  his  fame, 

Whose  sudden  loss  set  Science'  self  in  tears,  — 

I  stood  upon  it;  now  if  I  were  there 

Among  the  nocking  thoughts  would  this  one  brood,  — 

Mount  Agassiz !     It  must  have  known  such  prayer 

As  rose  at  Penikese  where  once  he  stood 

Pleading  with  Heaven,  yet  uttering  not  a  word, 

Leading  the  face  and  spirit  of  that  throng 

On  through  an  awe-hinged  gate,  that  swung  unheard, 

Into  His  presence  where  all  souls  belong:  — 

So  doubtless,  here,  with  noisy  words  unshod, 

Went  Prayer  in  Horeb  silence  unto  God. 

Charlotte  TisJce  Bates. 


Beverly,  Mass. 

HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES. 

POOR  lone  Hannah, 
Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 
Faded,  wrinkled, 
Sitting,  stitchmg,  in  a  mournful  muse. 


70  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Briglit-eyed  beauty  once  was  she, 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree : 

Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Not  a  neighbor 
Passing  nod  or  answer  will  refuse 

To  her  whisper, 

"  Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news  ?  " 
Oh,  her  heart 's  adrift,  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone  ! 

Night  and  morning, 
Hannah 's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  wooes : 

Hale  and  clever, 

Tor  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  sues. 
May-day  skies  are  all  aglow, 
And  the  waves  are  laughing  so ! 

Tor  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  her  shoes. 

May  is  passing : 
Mid  the  apple  boughs  a  pigeon  cooes. 

Hannah  shudders, 

For  the  mild  south  wester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped : 

Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


BEVERLY.  71 

'Tis  November, 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

Prom  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 
Whispering  hoarsely,  "Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Ben  ?  " 

Old  with  watching, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she  views. 

Twenty  seasons :  — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea: 

Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


SKIPPER  BEN. 

SAILING  away ! 
Losing  the  breath  of  the  shores  in  May, 
Dropping  down  from  the  beautiful  bay, 
Over  the  sea-slope  vast  and  gray  I 
And  the  skipper's  eyes  with  a  mist  are  blind; 
!For  a  vision  comes  on  the  rising  wind, 
Of  a  gentle  face,  that  he  leaves  behind, 
And  a  heart  that  throbs  through  the  fog-bank  dim, 
Thinking  of  him. 


72  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Par  into  night 

He  watches  the  gleam  of  the  lessening  light 
Fixed  on  the  dangerous  island  height, 
That  bars  the  harbor  he  loves  from  sight. 
And  he  wishes,  at  dawn,  he  could  tell  the  tale 
Of  how  they  had  weathered  the  southwest  gale, 
To  brighten  the  cheek  that  had  grown  so  pale 
With  a  wakeful  night  among  spectres  grim,  — 

Terrors  for  him. 

Yo-heave-yo ! 

Here  's  the  Bank  where  the  fishermen  go. 
Over  the  schooner's  sides  they  throw 
Tackle  and  bait  to  the  deeps  below. 
And  Skipper  Ben  in  the  water  sees, 
When  its  ripples  curl  to  the  light  land  breeze, 
Something  that  stirs  like  his  apple-trees ; 
And  two  soft  eyes  that  beneath  them  swim, 

Lifted  to  him. 

Hear  the  wind  roar, 

And  the  rain  through  the  slit  sails  tear  and  pour! 
"  Steady !  we  '11  scud  by  the  Cape  Ann  shore, 
Then  hark  to  the  Beverly  bells  once  more  !  " 
And  each  man  worked  with  the  will  of  ten ; 
While  up  in  the  rigging,  now  and  then, 
The  lightning  glared  in  the  face  of  Ben, 
Turned  to  the  black  horizon's  rim, 

Scowling  on  him. 

Into  his  brain 
Burned  with  the  iron  of  hopeless  pain, 


BEVERLY.  73 

Into  thoughts  that  grapple,  and  eyes  that  strain, 
Pierces  the  memory,  cruel  and  vain! 
Never  again  shall  he  walk  at  ease, 
Under  his  blossoming  apple-trees, 
That  whisper  and  sway  to  the  sunset  breeze, 
While  the  soft  eyes  float  where  the  sea-gulls  skim, 
Gazing  with  him. 

How  they  went  down 
Never  was  known  in  the  still  old  town. 
Nobody  guessed  how  the  fisherman  brown, 
With  the  look  of  despair  that  was  half  a  frown, 
Faced  his  fate  in  the  furious  night, — 
Faced  the  mad  billows  with  hunger  white, 
Just  within  hail  of  the  beacon-light 
That  shone  on  a  woman  sweet  and  trim, 

Waiting  for  him. 

Beverly  bells, 

Ring  to  the  tide  as  it  ebbs  and  swells ! 
His  was  the  anguish  a  moment  tells, — 
The  passionate  sorrow  death  quickly  knells. 
But  the  wearing  wash  of  a  lifelong  woe 
Is  left  for  the  desolate  heart  to  know, 
Whose  tides  with  the  dull  years  come  and  go 
Till  hope  drifts  dead  to  its  stagnant  brim, 

Thinking  of  him. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


H  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

THE  LIGHT-HOUSES. 
BAKER'S  ISLAND. 

rO  pale  sisters,  all  alone, 
On  an  island  bleak  and  bare, 
Listening  to  the  breakers'  moan, 

Shivering  in  the  chilly  air; 
Looking  inland  towards  a  hill, 
On  whose  top  one  aged  tree 
Wrestles  with  the  storm-wind's  will, 
Rushing,  wrathful,  from  the  sea. 

Two  dim  ghosts  at  dusk  they  seem, 

Side  by  side,  so  white  and  tall, 
Sending  one  long,  hopeless  gleam 

Down  the  horizon's  darkened  wall. 
Spectres,  strayed  from  plank  or  spar, 

With  a  tale  none  lives  to  tell, 
Gazing  at  the  town  afar, 

Where  unconscious  widows  dwell. 

Two  white  angels  of  the  sea, 

Guiding  wave-worn  wanderers  home ; 
Sentinels  of  hope  they  be, 

Drenched  with  sleet,  and  dashed  with  foam, 
Standing  there  in  loneliness, 

Fireside  joys  for  men  to  keep; 
Through  the  midnight  slumberless 

That  the  quiet  shore  may  sleep. 


BEVERLY.  75 

TVo  bright  eyes  awake  all  night 

To  the  fierce  moods  of  the  sea; 
Eyes  that  only  close  when  light 

Dawns  on  lonely  hill  and  tree. 
O  kind  watchers  !  teach  us,  too, 

Steadfast  courage,  sufferance  long  ! 
Where  an  eye  is  tnrned  to  you, 

Should  a  human  heart  grow  strong. 

Lucy  Larcom. 

BEVERLY  SHORE  IN  WINTER. 

THE  bittern  hies, 
In  lazy  flight, 
Where  star-shine  lies 
O'er  moorlands  white, 
And  shakes  new  fear  from  ghostly  night. 

The  reeds  hang  stiff 
By  many  a  stream, 
The  sailing  skiff 
Sails  like  a  dream, 
And  prayers  go  up  beneath  the  gleam. 

Rude  falls  the  wave 
On  shingle  cold, 
And  foam-beads  lave 
The  forests  old, 
And  break  and  die  on  their  dark  mould. 

In  pools  like  stone, 
So  still  and  bright, 


76  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  stork  alone, 
As  an  anchorite, 
Tells  to  himself  his  dreary  rite. 

No  cloud  is  strewn 
O'er  the  frozen  sky; 
To  a  spirit  tune 
Their  lullaby 
The  oaks  around  chant  dismally. 

Not  a  living  man 
Moves  on  the  moor; 
No  soul  that  can 
Opes  now  the  door, 
But  silent  fear  haunts  the  wild  shore. 

Bad  spirits  sail 
On  the  cloudy  rack, 
The  dark  turns  pale 
In  their  blasting  track, 
Where  they  touch  the  frost  is  sooty  black. 

The  marsh  grass  thin 
Shivers  in  fear, 
Thistle-downs  spin 
From  the  thistle  sere, 
And  shadows  race  o'er  the  levels  drear. 

Like  silver  shines 
Each  sea-shell  worn. 
The  ridged  sand-lines 
By  surges  torn 
Seem  faery  ramparts  left  and  lorn. 


BIRCH    STREAM.  77 

A  star  down  drops 
From  the  sea  on  high, 
Past  the  forest  tops 
To  the  lower  sky, 
Like  a  tear  from  a  suffering  angel's  eye. 

Icicles  hoar 
Split  and  descend; 
On  the  freezing  shore 
The  frost  kings  rend 
Their  sheeny  jewelry  evermore. 

Thomas  Gold  Appleton. 


Birch  Stream,  Me. 

BIRCH  STREAM. 

AT  noon,  within  the  dusty  town, 
Where  the  wild  river  rushes  down, 
And  thunders  hoarsely  all  day  long, 
I  think  of  thee,  my  hermit  stream, 
Low  singing  in  thy  summer  dream, 
Thine  idle,  sweet,  old,  tranquil  song. 

Northward,  Katahdin's  chasmed  pile 
Looms  through  thy  low,  long,  leafy  aisle; 

Eastward,  Olamon's  summit  shines; 
And  I  upon  thy  grassy  shore, 
The  dreamful,  happy  child  of  yore, 

Worship  before  mine  olden  shrines. 


78  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Again  the  sultry  noontide  hush 
Is  sweetly  broken  by  the  thrush, 

"Whose  clear  bell  rings  and  dies  away 
Beside  thy  banks,  in  coverts  deep, 
Where  nodding  buds  of  orchis  sleep 

In  dusk,  and  dream  not  it  is  day. 

Again  the  wild  cow-lily  floats 
Her  golden-freighted,  tented  boats, 

In  thy  cool  coves  of  softened  gloom, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  whispering  reed, 
And  purple  plumes  of  pickerel-weed, 

And  meadow-sweet  in  tangled  bloom. 

The  startled  minnows  dart  in  flocks 
Beneath  thy  glimmering  amber  rocks, 

If  but  a  zephyr  stirs  the  brake ;   ' 
The  silent  swallow  swoops,  a  flash 
Of  light,  and  leaves,  with  dainty  plash, 

A  ring  of  ripples  in  her  wake. 

Without,  the  laud  is  hot  and  dim; 
The  level  fields  in  languor  swim, 

Their  stubble-grasses  brown  as  dust ; 
And  all  along  the  upland  lanes, 
Where  shadeless  noon  oppressive  reigns, 

Dead  roses  wear  their  crowns  of  rust. 

Within,  is  neither  blight  nor  death, 
The  fierce  sun  wooes  with  ardent  breath, 

But  cannot  win  thy  sylvan  heart. 
Only  the  child  who  loves  thee  long, 


BLOCK    ISLAND    (MANISEES).  79 

With  faithful  worship  pure  and  strong, 
Can  know  how  dear  and  sweet  thou  art. 

So  loved  I  thee  in  days  gone  by, 

So  love  I  yet,  though  leagues  may  lie 

Between  us,  and  the  years  divide;  — 
A  breath  of  coolness,  dawn,  and  dew, — 
A  joy  forever  fresh  and  true, 

Thy  memory  doth  with  me  abide. 

Anna  Boynton  Averill. 


Block  Island  (Manisees],  H.  /. 

THE  ISLAND. 

THE  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 
Along  its  solitary  shore, 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 
No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 

Save  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea, 

The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silently, 

How  beautiful !   no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 


80  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side ; 

Prom  out  the  trees  the  sabbath  bell 

Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sounds  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  amongst  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell  nor  pastoral  bleat 

In  former  days  within  the  vale; 

Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet; 

Curses  were  on  the  gale; 

Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

Richard  Henry  Dana. 

THE  PALATINE. 

T  EAGUES  north,  as  fly  the  gull  and  auk, 
JU  Point  Judith  watches  with  eye  of  hawk; 
Leagues  south,  thy  beacon  flames,  Montauk! 

Lonely  and  wind-shorn,  wood-forsaken, 
With  never  a  tree  for  Spring  to  waken, 
Tor  tryst  of  lovers  or  farewells  taken, 

Circled  by  waters  that  never  freeze, 
Beaten  by  billow  and  swept  by  breeze, 
Lieth  the  island  of  Manisees, 

Set  at  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  to  hold 
The  coast  lights  up  on  its  turret  old, 
Yellow  with  moss  and  sea-fog  mould. 


BLOCK    ISLAND    (MANISEES).  81 

Dreary  the  land  when  gust  and  sleet 

At  its  doors  and  windows  howl  and  beat, 

And  Winter  laughs  at  its  fires  of  peat ! 

But  in  summer  time,  when  pool  and  pond, 

Held  in  the  laps  of  valleys  fond, 

Are  blue  as  the  glimpses  of  sea  beyond; 

When  the  hills  are  sweet  with  the  brier-rose, 
And,  hid  in  the  warm,  soft  dells,  unclose 
Flowers  the  mainland  rarely  knows; 

When  boats  to  their  morning  fishing  go, 
And,  held  to  the  wind  and  slanting  low, 
Whitening  and  darkening  the  small  sails  show,  — 

Then  is  that  lonely  island  fair; 

And  the  pale  health-seeker  findeth  there 

The  wine  of  life  in  its  pleasant  air. 

No  greener  valleys  the  sun  invite, 

On  smoother  beaches  no  sea-birds  light, 

No  blue  waves  shatter  to  foam  more  white! 

There,  circling  ever  their  narrow  range, 

Quaint  tradition  and  legend  strange 

Live  on  unchallenged,  and  know  no  change. 

Old  wives  spinning  their  webs  of  tow, 

Or  rocking  weirdly  to  and  fro 

In  and  out  of  the  peat's  dull  glow, 


82  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  old  men  mending  their  nets  of  twine, 
Talk  together  of  dream  and  sign, 
Talk  of  the  lost  ship  Palatine,  — 

The  ship  that,  a  hundred  years  before, 
Freighted  deep  with  its  goodly  store, 
In  the  gales  of  the  equinox  went  ashore. 

The  eager  islanders  one  by  one 

Counted  the  shots  of  her  signal  gun, 

And  heard  the  crash  when  she  drove  right  on! 

Into  the  teeth  of  death  she  sped: 
(May  God  forgive  the  hands  that  fed 
The  false  lights  over  the  rocky  Head !) 

0  men  .and  brothers  !  what  sights  were  there  ! 
White  upturned  faces,  hands  stretched  in  prayer ! 
Where  waves  had  pity,  could  ye  not  spare? 

Down  swooped  the  wreckers,  like  birds  of  prey 
Tearing  the  heart  of  the  ship  away, 
And  the  dead  had  never  a  word  to  say. 

And  then,  with  ghastly  shimmer  and  shine 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
They  burned  the  wreck  of  the  Palatine. 

In  their  cruel  hearts,  as  they  homeward  sped, 
"  The  sea  and  the  rocks  are  dumb,"  they  said : 
"  There  '11  be  no  reckoning  with  the  dead." 


BLOCK   ISLAND    (MANISEES).  83 

But  the  year  went  round,  and  when  once  more 
Along  their  foam-white  curves  of  shore 
They  heard  the  line-storm  rave  and  roar, 

Behold !   again,  with  shimmer  and  shine, 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
The  flaming  wreck  of  the  Palatine ! 

So,  haply  in  fitter  words  than  these, 
Mending  their  nets  on  their  patient  knees, 
They  tell  the  legend  of  Manisees. 

Nor  looks  nor  tones  a  doubt  betray ; 

"It  is  known  to  us  all,"  they  quietly  say; 

"We  too  have  seen  it  in  our  day." 

Is  there,  then,  no  death  for  a  word  once  spoken? 
Was  never  a  deed  but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken? 

Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 
Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On  Nature's  infinite  negative, 

Which,  half  in  sport,  in  malice  half, 
She  shows  at  times,  with  shudder  or  laugh, 
,  Phantom  and  shadow  in  photograph  ? 

For  still,  on  many  a  moonless  night, 

From  Kingston  Head  and  from  Montauk  light 

The  spectre  kindles  and  burns  in  sight. 


84  POEMS  OF  PLACES. 

Now  low  and  dim,  now  clear  and  higher, 
Leaps  up  the  terrible  Ghost  of  Fire, 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  the  flames  expire. 

And  the  wise  Sound  skippers,  though  skies  be  fine, 
Reef  their  sails  when  they  see  the  sign 
Of  the  blazing  wreck  of  the  Palatine ! 

John  Green  leaf  Whittle  r. 


Blue  Mountains,  Me. 

THE  DISTANT  MOUNTAIN-RANGE. 

fTlHEY  beckon  from  their  sunset  domes  afar, 

-1-  Light's  royal  priesthood,  the  eternal  hills: 

Though  born  of  earth,  robed  of  the  sky  they  are ; 

And  the  anointing  radiance  heaven  distils 

On  their  high  brows,  the  air  with  glory  fills. 

The  portals  of  the  west  are  opened  wide ; 

And  lifted  up,  absolved  from  earthly  ills, 

All  thoughts,  a  reverent  throng,  to  worship  glide. 

The  hills  interpret  heavenly  mysteries, 

The  mysteries  of  Light,  —  an  open  book 

Of  Revelation  :  see,  its  leaves  unfold 

With  crimson  borderings,  and  lines  of  gold ! 

Where  the  rapt  reader,  though  soul-deep  his  look, 

Dreams  of  a  glory  deeper  than  he  sees. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


BOONE    ISLAND.  85 


THE  PRESENCE. 

THE  mountain  statelier  lifts  his  blue-veiled  head, 
While,  drawing  near,  we  meet  him  face  to  face. 
Here,  as  on  holy  ground,  we  softly  tread; 
Yet,  with  a  tender  and  paternal  grace, 
He  gives  the  wild-flowers  in  his  lap  a  place: 
They  climb  his  sides,  as  fondled  infants  might, 
And  wind  around  him,  in  a  light  embrace, 
Their  summer  drapery,  pink  and  clinging  white. 
Great  hearts  have  largest  room  to  bless  the  small; 
Strong  natures  give  the  weaker  home  and  rest : 
So  Christ  took  little  children  to  his  breast, 
And,  with  a  reverence  more  profound,  we  fall 
In  the  majestic  presence  that  can  give 
Truth's  simplest  message:  "3T  is  by  love  ye  live." 

Lucy  Larcom. 


Boone  Island,  Me. 

THE  WATCH  OF  BOONE  ISLAND. 

THEY  crossed  the  lonely  and  lamenting  sea; 
Its  moaning   seemed  but   singing.      "Wilt  thou 

dare," 

He  asked  her,  "brave  the  loneliness  with  me?" 
"What  loneliness,"  she  said,  "if  thou  art  there?" 


Ob  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Afar  and  cold  on  the  horizon's  rim 

Loomed  the  tall  lighthouse,  like  a  ghostly  sign; 
They  sighed  not  as  the  shore  behind  grew  dim, 

A  rose  of  joy  they  bore  across  the  brine. 

They  gained  the  barren  rock,  and  made  their  home 
Among  the  wild  waves  and  the  sea-birds  wild; 

The  wintry,  winds  blew  fierce  across  the  foam, 
But  in  each  other's  eyes  they  looked  and  smiled. 

Aloft  the  lighthouse  sent  its  warnings  wide, 
Fed  by  their  faithful  hands,  and  ships  in  sight 

With  joy  beheld  it,  and  on  land  men  cried, 

"  Look,  clear  and  steady  burns  Boon  Island  light ! " 

And,  while  they  trimmed  the  lamp  with  busy  hands, 
"  Shine  far  and  through  the  dark,  sweet  light,"  they 
cried ; 

"Bring  safely  back  the  sailors  from  all  lands 
To  waiting  love,  —  wife,  mother,  sister,  bride  !  " 

No  tempest  shook  their  calm,  though  many  a  storm 
Tore  the  vexed  ocean  into  furious  spray; 

No  chill  could  find  them  in  their  Eden  warm, 
And  gently  Time  lapsed  onward  day  by  day. 

Said  I  no  chill  could  find  them?  There  is  one 
Whose  awful  footfalls  everywhere  are  known, 

With  echoing  sobs,  who  chills  the  summer  sun, 
And  turns  the  happy  heart  of  youth  to  stone ; 

Inexorable  Death,  a  silent  guest 

At  every  hearth,  before  whose  footsteps  flee 


BOONE    ISLAND.  87 

All  joys,  who  rules  the  earth,  and,  without  rest, 
Roams  the  vast  shuddering  spaces  of  the  sea; 

Death  found  them ;  turned  his  face  and  passed  her  by, 

But  laid  a  finger  on  her  lover's  lips, 
And  there  was  silence.     Then  the  storm  ran  high, 

And  tossed  and  troubled  sore  the  distant  ships. 

Nay,  who  shall  speak  the  terrors  of  the  night, 
The  speechless 'sorrow,  the  supreme  despair? 

Still  like  a  ghost  she  trimmed  the  waning  light, 
Dragging  her  slow  weight  up  the  winding  stair. 

With  more  than  oil  the  saving  lamp  she  fed, 

While  lashed  to  madness  the  wild  sea  she  heard; 

She  kept  her  awful  vigil  with  the  dead, 
And  God's  sweet  pity  still  she  ministered. 

0  sailors,  hailing  loud  the  cheerful  beam, 
Piercing  so  far  the  tumult  of  the  dark, 

A  radiant  star  of  hope,  you  could  not  dream 
What  misery  there  sat  cherishing  that  spark! 

Three  times  the  night,  too  terrible  to  bear, 
Descended,  shrouded  in  the  storm.  At  last 

The  sun  rose  clear  and  still  on  her  despair, 
And  all  her  striving  to  the  winds  she  cast, 

And  bowed  her  head  and  let  the  light  die  out, 
Eor  the  wide  sea  lay  calm  as  her  dead  love. 

When  evening  fell,  from  the  far  land,  in  doubt, 
Yainly  to  find  that  faithful  star  men  strove. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Sailors  and  landsmen  look,  and  women's  eyes, 
For  pity  ready,  search  in  vain  the  night, 

And  wondering  neighbor  unto  neighbor  cries, 

"  Now  what,  think  you,  can  ail  Boon  Island  light  ?  " 

Out  from  the  coast  toward  her  high  tower  they  sailed; 

They  found  her  watching,  silent,  by  her  dead, 
A  shadowy  woman,  who  nor  wept  nor  wailed, 

But  answered  what  they  spake,  till  all  was  said. 

They  bore  the  dead  and  living  both  away. 

With  anguish  time  seemed  powerless  to  destroy 
She  turned,  and  backward  gazed  across  the  bay,  — 

Lost  in  the  sad  sea  lay  her  rose  of  joy. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


Boston,  Mass. 

THE  HARBOR. 

QCATTEKED  within  the  peaceful  bay 

K3  Many  a  fair  isle  and  islet  lay, 

And  rocks  and  banks  which  threatened  there 

No  peril  to  the  mariner. 
The  shores  which  bent  around  were  gay 
With  maizals,  and  with  pastures  green, 
And  rails  and  hedge-row  trees  between, 

And  fields  for  harvest  white, 
And  dwellings  sprinkled  up  and  down; 


BOSTON.  Si) 

And  round  about  the  clustered  town, 

Which  rose  in  sunshine  bright, 
Was  many  a  sheltered  garden  spot, 
And  many  a  sunny  orchard  plot, 

And  bowers  which  might  invite 
The  studious  man  to  take  his  seat 
Within  their  quiet,  cool  retreat, 

When  noon  was  at  its  height. 
No  heart  that  was  at  ease,  I  ween, 
Could  gaze  on  that  surrounding  scene 

Without  a  calm  delight. 

Robert  Southey. 

BOSTON. 

THE  rocky  nook  with  hill-tops  three 
Looked  eastward  from  the  farms, 
And  twice  each  day  the  flowing  sea 
Took  Boston  in  its  arms ; 

The  men  of  yore  were  stout  and  poor, 
And  sailed  for  bread  to  every  shore. 

And  where  they  went  on  trade  intent 

They  did  what  freemen  can, 
Their  dauntless  ways  did  all  men  praise, 
The  merchant  was  a  man. 

The  world  was  made  for  honest  trade,  — 
To  plant  and  eat  be  none  afraid. 

The  waves  that  rocked  them  on  the  deep 
To  them  their  secret  told : 


90  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Said  the  winds  that  sung  the  lads  to  sleep, 
"Like  us  be  free  and  bold!" 
The  honest  waves  refuse  to  slaves 
The  empire  of  the  ocean  caves. 

Old  Europe  groans  with  palaces, 

Has  lords  enough  and  more;  — 
We  plant  and  build  by  foaming  seas 
A  city  of  the  poor ;  — 

For  day  by  day  could  Boston  Bay 
Their  honest  labor  overpay. 

We  grant  no  dukedoms  to  the  few, 
We  hold  like  rights  and  shall;  — 
Equal  on  Sunday  in  the  pew, 
On  Monday  in  the  mall. 
Por  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail, 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail? 

The  noble  craftsman  we  promote, 

Disown  the  knave  and  fool; 
Each  honest  man  shall  have  his  vote, 

Each  child  shall  have  his  school. 
A  union  then  of  honest  men, 

Or  union  nevermore  again. 
*  *  * 

"Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


BOSTON.  91 


CALEF  IN  BOSTON. 

1692. 

TN"  the  solemn  days  of  old, 
J-  Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 
One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone,  — 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth ! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth  ! " 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then, — 
"God  be  judge  'twixt  thou  and  I; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

"God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure; 

Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires; 

Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 


92  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones ; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee  ! " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie, — 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed 
Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 
Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 

John  Greenleqf  Whittier. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET, 

OCTOBER,  1746. 
MR.  THOMAS  PKINCE  loquitur. 

A  FLEET  with  flags  arrayed 
Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 
The  signal:  "Steer  southwest." 
For  this  Admiral  D'Anville 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 


BOSTON.  93 

To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 
Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly :  "  Let  us  pray ! 

"  0  Lord !  we  would  not  advise ; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  Fleet  hence, 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be." 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls, 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 


94  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  I  cried :  "  Stand  still,  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lord  !  " 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  lond 

Blew  the  October  gale. 

The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas ; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these ! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line; 
They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
0  Lord  !  before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  sea  ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 

IN  THE  OLD  SOUTH  CHURCH. 
1677. 

SHE  came  and  stood  in  the  Old  South  Church, 
A  wonder  and  a  sign, 
With  a  look  the  old-time  sibyls  wore, 
Half-crazed  and  half-divine. 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  CHURCH.     See  page  95. 


BOSTON.  95 

Save  the  mournful  sackcloth  about  her  wound, 

Unclothed  as  the  primal  mother, 
With  limbs  that  trembled,  and  eyes  that  blazed 

With  a  fire  she  dare  not  smother. 

Loose  on  her  shoulder  fell  her  hair, 

With  sprinkled  ashes  gray; 
She  stood  in  the  broad  aisle,  strange  and  weird 

As  a  soul  at  the  judgment  day. 

And  the  minister  paused  in  his  sermon's  midst, 

And  the  people  held  their  breath, 
For  these  were  the  words  the  maiden  said 

Through  lips  as  pale  as  death:  — 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  '  With  equal  feet 

All  men  my  courts  shall  tread, 
And  priest  and  ruler  no  more  shall  eat 

My  people  up  like  bread ! ' 

"  Repent,  repent !  —  ere  the  Lord  shall  speak 

In  thunder,  and  breaking  seals  ! 
Let  all  souls  worship  him  in  the  way 

His  light  within  reveals  !  " 

She  shook  the  dust  from  her  naked  feet, 

And  her  sackcloth  closely  drew, 
And  into  the  porch  of  the  awe-hushed  church 

She  passed  like  a  ghost  from  view. 

They  whipped  her  away  at  the  tail  o'  the  cart; 
(Small  blame  to  the  angry  town !) 


96  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  the  words  she  uttered  that  day  nor  fire 
Could  burn  nor  water  drown. 

For  now  the  aisles  of  the  ancient  church 

By  equal  feet  are  trod; 
And  the  bell  that  swings  in  its  belfry  rings 

Freedom  to  worship  God! 

And  now,  whenever  a  wrong  is  done, 

It  thrills  the  conscious  walls ; 
The  stone  from  the  basement  cries  aloud, 

And  the  beam  from  the  timber  calls ! 

There  are  steeple-houses  on  every  hand, 

And  pulpits  that  bless  and  ban; 
And  the  Lord  will  not  grudge  the  single  church 

That  is  set  apart  for  man. 

For  in  two  commandments  are  all  the  law 

And  the  prophets  under  the  sun; 
And  the  first  is  last,  and  the  last  is  first, 

And  the  twain  are  verily  one. 

So  long  as  Boston  shall  Boston  be, 

And  her  bay-tides  rise  and  fall, 
Shall  freedom  stand  in  the  Old  South  Church, 

And  plead  for  the  rights  of  all ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

THE  BELFRY  PIGEON, 

ON  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 


BOSTON.  97 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air; 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet, 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 
'T  is  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel, — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell, — 

Chime  or  the  hour  or  funeral  knell,  — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon, 

When  the  sexton  cheerily  rings  for  noon, 

When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  "nine  at  night," 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 

Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer,  — 

Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 

Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee ! 


98  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen : 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world,  and  soar, 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I  would  that  in  such  wings  of  gold 
I  could  my  weary  heart  upfold, 
And,  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 
Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe; 
And  only  sad  with  others'  sadness, 
And  only  glad  with  others'  gladness, 
Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 
And,  lapt  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


MARY  CHILSON, 

FAIR  beams  that  kiss  the  sparkling  bay, 
Rest  warmest  o'er  her  tranquil  sleep ; 
Sweet  exile !  love  enticed  away,  — 

The  first  on  Plymouth  Rock  to  leap ! 
Among  the  timid  flock  she  stood, 

Rare  figure  near  the  May-Flower's  prow, 
With  heart  of  Christian  fortitude, 
And  light  heroic  on  her  brow  ! 


BOSTON.  99 

0  ye  who  round  King's  Chapel  stray, 

Forget  the  turmoil  of  the  street ; 
Though  loftier  names  are  round  her,  lay 

A  wreath  of  flowers  at  Mary's  feet ! 
Though  gallant  Winslows  slumber  here, 

E'en  worthy  Lady  Andros  too, 
Her  memory  is  still  as  dear, 

And  poets'  praise  to  Mary  due. 
*  *  * 

George  Bancroft  Griffith. 


CHEIST  .CHURCH. 

GRAY  spire,  that  from  the  ancient  street 
The  eyes  of  reverent  pilgrims  greet, 
As  by  thy  bells  their  steps  are  led, 
Thou  liftest  up  thy  voice  to-day, 
Silvery  and  sweet,  yet  strong  as  aye, 
Above  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Beneath  thy  tower,  how  vast  the  throng 
That  moved  through  porch  and  aisle  along 

The  holy  fane,  the  galleried  height; 
As  years  came  in,  and  years  went  out, 
With  sob  of  woe,  or  joyful  shout ; 

With  requiem  rest,  or  anthem  bright. 

Old  faces  haunt  the  ancient  pew, 
And  in  the  organ  loft  renew 


100  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  sacred  strain  of  earlier  times, 
When  knight  and  dame  in  worship  bent, 
And  from  their  lips  the  homage  sent 

That  mingled  with  the  answering  chimes. 

And  here  the  patriot  hnng  his  light, 
Which  shone  through  all  that  anxions  night, 

To  eager  eyes  of  Paul  Revere. 
There,  in  the  dark  churchyard  below, 
The  dead  Past  wakened  not,  to  know 

How  changed  the  world,  that  night  of  fear. 

The  angels  on  thy  gallery  soar, 
The  Saviour's  face  thine  altar  o'er 

Is  there,  as  in  the  elder  day. 
The  royal  silver  yet  doth  shine, 
And  holds  the  pledge  of  love  divine, 

That  cannot  change,  nor  pass  away. 
*  *  * 

Edwin  B.  Russell. 


BOSTON  COMMON, -THREE  PICTURES. 

1630. 

ALL  overgrown  with  bush  and  fern, 
And  straggling  clumps  of  tangled  trees, 
With  trunks  that  lean  and  boughs  that  turn, 
Bent  eastward  by  the  mastering  breeze, — 
W7ith  spongy  bogs  that  drip  and  fill 
A  yellow  pond  with  muddy  rain, 
Beneath  the  shaggy  southern  hill 

Lies  wet  and  low  the  Shawmut  plain. 


BOSTON.  10 J 

And  hark  !   the  trodden  branches  crack ; 

A  crow  flaps  off  with  startled  scream ; 
A  straying  woodchuck  canters  back; 

A  bittern  rises  from  the  stream ; 
JL/eaps  from  his  lair  a  frightened  deer; 

An  otter  plunges  in  the  pool ;  — 
If  ere  comes  old  Shawmut's  pioneer, 

The  parson  on  his  brindled  bull ! 

1774. 

THE  streets  are  thronged"  with  trampling  feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  "rebel  knaves." 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are  red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come : 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's  tread, 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum, 
And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless  kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The  war-horse  stamps,  the  bayonets  shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 
And  soon  their  whistling  showers  shall  stain 

The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men. 

1869. 

AROUND  the  green,  in  morning  light, 
The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 


''.  ',;    ;        ;P£>EMS<  OF   PLACES. 

And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 

The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her  rays ; 
They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains, 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bauds  of  white, 
Till  with  a  flash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hillside  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth !   no  fairer  view, 

Though  with  the  wild-bird's  restless  wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or  chased  the  moonlight's  endless  rings ! 
Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 

His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 
The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands ; 

He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


TRI-MOUNTAIN. 

rPHROUGH  Time's  dim  atmosphere,  behold 
-L     Those  ancient  hills  again, 
Rising  to  Fancy's  eager  view 

In  solitude,  as  when 
Beneath  the  summer  firmament, 

So  silently  of  yore, 
The  shadow  of  each  passing  cloud 

Their  rugged  bosoms  bore ! 

They  sloped  in  pathless  grandeur  then 

Down  to  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  rose  upon  the  woodland  plain 

In  lonely  majesty. 


THE  OLD  ELM  FORMERLY  ON  BOSTON   COMMON.     ?ee  r»g3  102. 


BOSTON.  103 

The  breeze,  at  noontide,  whispered  soft 

Their  emerald  knolls  among, 
And  midnight's  wind,  amid  their  heights, 

Its  wildest  dirges  sung. 

As  on  their  brow  the  forest-king 

Paused  in  his  weary  way, 
Prom  far  below  his  quick  ear  caught 

The  moaning  of  the  bay; 
The  dry  leaves,  fanned  by  autumn's  breath, 

Along  their  ridges  crept; 
And  snow-wreaths,  like  storm-whitened  waves, 

Around  them  rudely  swept. 

Por  ages,  o'er  their  swelling  sides, 

Grew  the  wild  flowers  of  spring, 
And  stars  smiled  down,  and  dew-founts  poured 

Their  gentle  offering. 
The  moonbeams  played  upon  their  peaks, 

And  at  their  feet  the  tide ; 
And  thus,  like  altar-mounts,  they  stood, 

By  nature  sanctified. 

Now,  when  to  mark  their  beacon-forms 

The  seaman  turns  his  gaze, 
It  quails,  as  roof  and  spire  and  dome 

Plash  in  the  sun's  bright  rays. 
On  those  wild  hills  a  thousand  homes 

Are  reared  in  proud  array, 
And  argosies  float  safely  o'er 

That  lone  and  isle-gemmed  bay. 


104  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Those  shadowy  mounds,  so  long  untrod, 

By  countless  feet  are  pressed ; 
And  hosts  of  loved  ones  meekly  sleep 

Below  their  teeming  breast. 
A  world's  unnumbered  voices  float 

Within  their  narrow  bound; 
Love's  gentle  tone.,  and  traffic's  hum, 

And  music's  thrilling  sound. 

There  Liberty  first  found  a  tongue 

Beneath  New  England's  sky, 
And  there  her  earliest  martyrs  stood, 

And  nerved  themselves  to  die. 
And  long  upon  these  ancient  hills, 

By  glory's  light  enshrined, 
May  rise  the  dwellings  of  the  free, 

The  city  of  the  mind. 

Henri/  Theodore  Tuckerman. 


CHURCH  BELLS. 

THE  churches  referred  to  in  these  lines  are  King's  Chapel ;  the  Old 
South ;  Park  Street  Church ;  Christ  Church,  and  the  church  in  Brattle 
Square. 

THE  air  is  hushed;   the  street  is  holy  ground; 
Hark  !     The  sweet  bells  renew  their  welcome  sound; 
As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is  flung. 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That  shocks  our  echoes  with  the  name  of  Kings, 
Whose  bell,  just  glistening  from  the  font  and  forge, 


BOSTON.  105 

Rolled  its  proud  requiem  for  the  second  George, 

Solemn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 

Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous  clang;  — 

The  simpler  pile,  that,  mindful  of  the  hour 

When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half-built  tower, 

Wears  on  its  bosom,  as  a  bride  might  do, 

The  iron  breastpin  which  the  "  Rebels "  threw, 

Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quivering  thrill 

Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and  shrill;  — 

Aloft,  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 

Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  Southern  spire ;  — 

The  Giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad  green, 

His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent  scene, 

Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 

Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods  of  sound ;  — 

While,  sad  with  memories  of  the  olden  time, 

The  Northern  Minstrel  pours  her  tender  chime, 

Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  ancient  song, 

But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe  along. 

Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends  to  range 
Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  customs  change, 
Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  familiar  tone 
Mourns  on  the  winds  that  sigh  in  every  zone. 
When  Ceylon  sweeps  thee  with  her  perfumed  breeze 
Through  the  warm  billows  of  the  Indian  seas ; 
When  —  ship  and  shadow  blended  both  in  one  — 
Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 
From  sparkling  midnight  to  refulgent  noon 
Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  monsoon; 
When  through  thy  shrouds  the  wild  tornado  sings, 


106  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  thy  poor  seabird  folds  her  tattered  wings, — 
Oft  will  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 
And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal ! 
Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long  array 
Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded  bay, 
Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheering  fire, 
The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expecting  sire, 
The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if  aught  remain, 
Our  whispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent  strain. 

Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail  lean 
To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen ; 
Fear  not  the  tropic's  dews,  the  evening's  chills, 
His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple  hills ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmet. 


0 


THE  GREAT  FIRE  OF  NOVEMBER  9,  1872. 

BROAD-BREASTED  Queen  among  Nations! 

0  Mother,  so  strong  in  thy  youth! 
Has  the  Lord  looked  upon  thee  in  ire, 
And  willed  thou  be  chastened  by  fire, 
Without  any  ruth  ? 

Has  the  Merciful  tired  of  his  mercy, 

And  turned  from  thy  sinning  in  wrath, 

That  the  world  with  raised  hands  sees  and  pities 

Thy  desolate  daughters,  thy  cities, 
Despoiled  on  their  path? 

One  year  since  thy  youngest  was  stricken: 

Thy  eldest  lies  stricken  to-day. 
Ah !  God,  was  thy  wrath  without  pity, 


BOSTON.  107 

To  tear  the  strong  heart  from  our  city, 
And  cast  it  away? 

O  Father!  forgive  us  our  doubting; 

The  stain  from  our  weak  souls  efface ; 
Thou  rebukest,  we  know,  but  to  chasten; 
Thy  hand  has  but  fallen  to  hasten 

Return  to  thy  grace. 

Let  us  rise  purified  from  our  ashes 

As  sinners  have  risen  who  grieved; 
Let  us  show  that  twice-sent  desolation 
On  every  true  heart  in  the  nation 

Has  conquest  achieved. 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE: 

AS  SHE  SAW  IT  FROM  THE  BELFRY. 

'FT!  IS  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty,  one 
-L  remembers  • 

All  the  achings   and  the  quakings   of  "the  times  that 

tried  men's  souls  "  ; 
When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell  the  Rebel 

story, 
To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me  they  're  burning 

coals. 

I  had  heard  the 'muskets'  rattle  of  the  April  running 

battle ; 
Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red  coats 

still; 


108  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  a  deadly  cliill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms  up 

before  me, 
When  a  thousand  men   lay  bleeding   on   the  slopes  of 

Bunker's  Hill. 

'T  was  a  peaceful   summer's    morning,  when  the   first 

thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and  the 

shore : 
"  Child,"  says  grandma,  "  what 's  the  matter,  what  is 

all  this  noise  and  clatter  ? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to  murder  us 

once  more  ?  " 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in  the  midst  of 

all  my  quaking, 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began  to 

roar : 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the  slaughter  and 

the  pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with  their  bullets 

through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't  you  fret 

and  worry  any, 
Tor  I  '11  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether  this  is 

work  or  play; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't  be  gone  a 

minute  "  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.     I  was  gone  the  livelong 

day. 


BOSTON.  109 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  grimacing ; 
Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling  half-way  to 

my  heels ; 
God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when  there  's  blood 

around  her  flowing, 
How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  household   - 

feels! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping ;  and  I  knew  it  was 

the  stumping 
Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that  wooden  leg 

he  wore, 
With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was  lucky  I 

had  found  him,  — 
So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Corporal  marched 

before. 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple,  — the  old  soldier  and 

his  people; 
The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed  the  creaking 

stair. 
Just  across  the  narrow  river  —  oh,  so  close  it  made  me 

shiver ! 
Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but  yesterday  was 

bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it ;  well  we  knew  who  stood 

behind  it, 
Though  the  earthwork  hid   them    from  us,   and  the 

stubborn  walls  were  dumb : 


110  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking  wild  upon 

each  other, 
And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said, 

"The  hour  has  come!" 

The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel  had  we  tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with  the  cannons' 

deafening  thrill, 
When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the  rampart  strode 

sedately ; 
It  was  Prescott,  one  since  told  me ;  he  commanded  on 

the  hill. 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when  we  saw  his 

manly  figure, 
With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it,   standing  up   so 

straight  and  tall ; 
Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling  out  for 

pleasure, 
Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon-shot  he  walked 

around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red-coats' 

ranks  were  forming ; 
At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving  to  the 

piers ; 
How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened,  as  we  looked 

far  down,  and  listened 
To  the  trampling    and  the   drum-beat  of    the  belted 

grenadiers ! 


BOSTON.  Ill 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it  seemed 

faint-hearted), 
In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knapsacks   on 

their  backs, 
And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea-fight's 

slaughter, 
Round  the  barges   gliding  onward  blushed  like  blood 

along  their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and  again  they 

formed  in  order; 
And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for  soldiers, 

soldiers  still: 
The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women  faint  and 

fasting,  — 
At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching  proudly 

up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the  lines 

advancing,  — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley, — they  have  thrown 

away  their  shot; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the  balls  above 

them  flying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry;  so  they  wait  and  answer 

not. 

Then  the   Corporal,  our  old  cripple   (he  would  swear 

sometimes  and  tipple), — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the   old  Trench 

war)  before,  — 


112  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all  were 

hearing,  — 
And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty  belfry 

floor : — 

"  Oh  !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn   King  George's 

shillin's, 

But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  before  a  'rebel'  falls  ; 
You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they're  as  safe 

as  Dan'l  Malcolm 
Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you  've  splintered 

with  your  balls  ! " 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepidation 
Of  the   dread  approaching  moment,  we   are  wellnigh 

breathless  all; 
Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety  belfry 

railing, 
We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves  against 

a  wall. 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air,  is  clearer),  they  are  nearer,  — 

nearer,  —  nearer, 
When  a  flash —  a  curling  smoke-wreath  —  then  a  crash  — 

the  steeple  shakes  — 
The   deadly  truce  is  ended;  the  tempest's  shroud  is 

rended ; 
Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thunder-cloud 

it  breaks  ! 

Oh  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue-black  smoke 

blows  over! 
The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a  mower  rakes 

his  hay ; 


BOSTON.  113 

Here  a  scarlet  heap  is   lying,  there  a  headlong  crowd 

is  flying 
Like  a  billow  that  has   broken  and  is   shivered  into 

spray. 

Then  we  cried,  •"  The  troops  are  routed !  they  are  beat  — 

it  can't  be  doubted  ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over  ! "  —  Ah !  the  grim 

old  soldier's  smile! 
"  Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ?  "  (we  could  hardly 

speak,  we  shook  so;) 
"  Are    they   beaten  ?      Are    they  beaten  ?      Are   they 

beaten?"     "Wait  a  while." 

Oh  the  trembling  and  the  terror !  for  too  soon  we  saw 

our  error : 
They  are  baffled,  not  defeated;  we  have  driven  them 

back  in  vain; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round  the  colors 

that  were  tattered, 
Toward  the    sullen    silent    fortress    turn    their  belted 

breasts  again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo  the  roofs  of  Charles- 
town  blazing ! 

They  have  fired  the  harmless  village ;  in  an  hour  it  will 
be  down ! 

The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire  and 
brimstone  round  them,  — 

The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn  a 
peaceful  town!  - 


114  POEMS    OF  PLACES. 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn ;  we  can  see  each 

massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with  the  slanting 

walls  so  steep. 
Have  our   soldiers   got  faint-hearted,  and  in  noiseless 

haste  departed  ? 
Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless  ?    Are  they  palsied 

or  asleep  ? 

Now !  the  walls  they  're  almost  under  !  scarce   a  rod 

the  foes  asunder! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them !  up  the  earthwork 

they  will  swarm ! 
But  the  words  have    scarce    been  spoken,  when  the 

ominous  calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the  vengeance 

of  the  storm  ! 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted  backwards 

to  the  water, 
Ply  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  frightened  braves 

of  Howe ; 
And  we   shout,  "At  last  they're  done  for,  it's  their 

barges  they  have  run  for: 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten;  and  the  battle's  over 

now!" 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough  old 

soldier's  features, 
Our  lips   afraid  to  question,   but  he  knew  what  we 

would  ask: 


BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.    See  page  115. 


BOSTON.  115 

"Not  sure/'  lie   said;   "keep  quiet, — once  more,   I 

guess,  they  '11  try  it  — 
Here  's   damnation  to  the  cut-throats  !  " then  he 

handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  "  Gal,  you  're  looking   shaky ;  have  a  drop  of 

old  Jamaiky ; 

I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore  the  job  is  done  " : 
So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow ;  dreadful  faint  I  felt 

and  hollow, 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when  the  firing  was 

begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched  a  calm 

clock  dial, 
As   the   hands   kept    creeping,    creeping,  —  they  were 

creeping  round  to  four, 
When  the  old  man  said,  "They're  forming  with  their 

bagonets  fixed  for  storming : 
It's  the   death-grip  that's  a   coming,  —  they  will  try 

the  works  once  more." 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind  them 
glaring, 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they  come  ; 

Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold  un- 
coiling, — 

Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  reverberating 
drum  ! 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell  the  fearful 

story, 
How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea  breaks 

over  a  deck; 


116  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

How  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men 
retreated, 

With  tlieir  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swim- 
mers from  a  wreck? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted;  as  for  me,  they  say 

I  fainted, 
And  the  wooden-legged  old  Corporal  stumped  with  me 

down  the  stair. 
When  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the  evening  lamps 

were  lighted,  — 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying;   his  bleeding  breast 

was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  "  Send  for  Warren  ! 

hurry  !  hurry ! 
Tell  him  here  's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  '11  come  and 

dress  his  wound  !  " 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  tale  of  death 

and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on  the  dark  and 

bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his   name  was,  where  the 

place  from  which  he  came  was, 
Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and  had  left  him 

at  our  door, 
He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us ;  but  't  was  one  of  our 

brave  fellows, 
As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which  the  dying 

soldier  wore. 


BOSTON.  117 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they  gathered 

round  him  crying, — 
And  they  said,  "  Oh,   how  they  '11  miss  him  ! "    and, 

"  What  will  his  mother  do  ?  " 
Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's  that  has 

been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,  "Mother!" and  —  I  saw  his 

eyes  were  blue. 

—  "  Why,  grandma,  how  you  're  winking  !  "  —  Ah,  my 

child,  it  sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow  lived 

along ; 
So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I  nursed  him 

like  a  —  mother, 
Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy-cheeked, 

and  strong. 

And  we   sometimes  walked  together    in  the  pleasant 

summer  weather; 
— "  Please  to   tell  us  what  his  name  was  ?  "  —  Just 

your  own,  my  little  dear, — 
There  's  his  picture  Copley  painted  :  we  became  so  well 

acquainted, 
That — in   short,   that's  why  I'm  grandma,  and   you 

children  all  are  here ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


118  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT, 

THERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 
A  mighty  one  was  he : 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold  ; 
And  he  had  children  three. 

It  happened  to  be  an  election  day, 
And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king ; 
The  people  were  not  democrats  then; 
They  did  not  talk  of  the  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three 

And  fastened  them  in  the  pen; 

The  children  roared  ;    quoth  the  giant,  "  Be  still !  " 

And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 

Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed  with  plums, 
As  big  as  the  State  House  dome ; 
Quoth  he,  "There's  something  for  you  to  eat; 
So  stop  your  mouths  with  your  'lection  treat, 
And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home." 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 

And  whittled  the  boughs  away; 

The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout; 


BOSTON.  119 

Said  he,  "You're  in  and  you  can't  get  out, 
Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 

Off  lie  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 
As  he  strode  the  fields  along; 
'Tis  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 
When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 

But  whether  the  story  's  true  or  not, 

It  is  not  for  me  to  show; 

There  is  many  a  thing  that's  twice  as  queer, 

In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear, 

And  those  are  true,  you  know. 

What  are  those  loved  ones  doing  now, 
The  wife  and  children  sad  ? 
Oh,  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 
Screaming  and  throwing  their  pudding  about, 
Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills, 
They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw, 
They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 

Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 
For  ages  have  floated  by; 
The  suet  is  hard  as  a  marrow  bone, 
And  every  plum  is  turned  to  stone, 
But  there  the  puddings  he. 


120  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 

You'll  ask  me  out  to  ride, 

The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell, 

And  you  may  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 

And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


JBrookfield,  Mass. 

THE  OLD  BRIDGE. 

DOWN  by  the  river,  on  this  rustic  bridge, 
I  love  to  while  these  sunny  hours  away. 
The  low  wind  o'er  the  meadows  breathes  a  song 
That  lulls  the  ear  and  steals  upon  the  soul 
Like  voices  of  the  past;  the  delicate  blue 
Of  the  horizon  gleams  with  snowy  clouds, 
So  moveless  in  the  distance  that  they  seem 
The  peaks  of  fairy-land,  and,  oceanwards, 
Beneath  me,  glides  the  river  with  a  strain 
Of  music  as  it  laps  the  rough-hewn  piers 
Of  the  old  bridge,  and  winds  among  the  flats 
Now  golden  where  the  sun  strikes  through,  and  gilds 
The  yellow  sand  below,  or  lucent  green, 
Where  verdure  clothes  the  marge,  or  with  the  hue 
Of  heaven  on  its  bosom,  till  it  hides 
Among  the  hills,  that  spread  their  friendly  arms 
To  welcome  it.     Anon  a  rippling  breeze 
Skims  on  the  surface,  and  a  deeper  blue 


BROOKLINE.  121 

Enchants  the  eye.     There  leaps  a  perch,  and  leaves 
A  silver  circle  curling  to  the  shore; 
And  here  the  minnows  gather,  where  the  bridge 
Throws  a  brown  shadow  on  the  stream.     A  flock 
Of  wild-fowl,  bearing  northward,  sail  o'erhead,  — 
Specks  on  the  azure.     In  the  languid  air, 
Before  me  darts  the  swallow,  and  I  hear 
The  meadow-lark,  the  catbird,  and  the  jay 
Afar  and  near.     0  songsters  of  the  spring, 
Ye  seem  to  bring  us  health  and  happiness 
Upon  your  wings,  for  your  wild  warbling  fills 
The  weary  soul  with  unaccustomed  joy, 
With  ecstasy  that  language  cannot  tell! 
*  *  * 

Seymour  Green  Wheeler  Benjamin. 


Brookline,  Mass. 

A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

THIS  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed, 
Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 
/ 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 


122  POEMS    OP   PLACES. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 

O  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 
And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they : 

One  of  God's  holy  messengers 
Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 
Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 

The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 
Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

"Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born!" 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind, 
Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 


BROOKLINE.  ]  23 

Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 
That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me; 
Tor  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas !  the  place  seems  changed; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here: 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 

Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 
Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 

A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 


24  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Brunswick,  Me. 

MORITURI  SALUTAMUS, 

OYE  familiar  scenes,  —  ye  groves  of  pine, 
That  once  were  mine  and  are  no  longer  mine,  — • 
Thou  river,  widening  through  the  meadows  green 
To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  unseen,  — 
Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 
Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose 
And  vanished,  —  we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you;  earth  and  air  and  sea  and  sky, 
And  the  Imperial  Sun. that  scatters  down 
His  sovereign  splendors  upon  grove  and  town. 

Ye  do  not  answer  us  !  ye  do  not  hear ! 
We  are  forgotten ;  and  in  your  austere 
And  calm  indifference,  ye  little  care 
Whether  we  come  or  go,  or  whence  or  where. 
What  passing  generations  fill  these  halls, 
What  passing  voices  echo  from  these  walls, 
Ye  heed  not;  we  are  only  as  the  blast, 
A  moment  heard,  and  then  forever  past. 

Not  so  the  teachers  who  in  earlier  days 

Led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learning's  maze; 

They  answer  us,  —  alas  !  what  have  I  said  ? 

What  greetings  come  there  from  the  voiceless  dead? 

What  salutation,  welcome,  or  reply? 

What  pressure  from  the  hands  that  lifeless  lie? 


BRUNSWICK.  125 

They  are  no  longer  here;  they  all  are  gone 
Into  the  land  of  shadows,  —  all  save  one. 
Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  repute 
That  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him,  whom  living  we  salute. 

The  great  Italian  poet,  when  he  made 

His  dreadful  journey  to  the  realms  of  shade, 

Met  there  the  old  instructor  of  his  youth, 

A.nd  cried  in  tones  of  pity  and  of  ruth : 

"  Oh,  never  from  the  memory  of  my  heart 

Your  dear,  paternal  image  shall  depart, 

Who  while  on  earth,  ere  yet  by  death  surprised, 

Taught  me  how  mortals  are  immortalized ; 

How  grateful  am  I  for  that  patient  care 

All  my  life  long  my  language  shall  declare." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


PARKER  CLEAVELAND. 

AMONG  the  many  lives  that  I  have  known, 
None  I  remember  more  serene  and  sweet, 
More  rounded  in  itself  and  more  complete, 
Than  his,  who  lies  beneath  this  funeral  stone. 
These  pines,  that  murmur  in  low  monotone, 
These  walks  frequented  by  scholastic  feet, 
Were  all  his  world ;  but  in  this  calm  retreat 
For  him  the  teacher's  chair  became  a  throne. 
With  fond  affection  memory  loves  to  dwell 
On  the  old  days,  when  his  example  made 


126  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  pastime  of  the  toil  of  tongue  and  pen ; 
And  now,  amid  the  groves  he  loved  so  well 
That  naught  could  lure  him  from  their  grateful  shade, 
He   sleeps,  but  wakes    elsewhere,  for    God  hath  said, 
Amen! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Cambridge,  Mass. 

THE  WASHINGTON  ELM. 

T)ENEATH  our  consecrated  elm 

-D  A  century  ago  he  stood, 

Tamed  vaguely  for  that  old  fight  in  the  wood 

Whose  red  surge  sought,  but  could  not  overwhelm 

The  life  foredoomed  to  wield  our  rough-hewn  helm : 

Prom  colleges,  where  now  the  gown 

To  arms  had  yielded,  from  the  town, 

Our  rude  self-summoned  levies  flocked  to  see 

The  new-come  chiefs  and  wonder  which  was  he. 

No  need  to  question  long;  close-lipped  and  tall, 

Long  trained  in  murder-brooding  forests  lone 

To  bridle  others'  clamors  and  his  own, 

Firmly  erect,  he  towered  above  them  all, 

The  incarnate  discipline  that  was  to  free 

With  iron  curb  that  armed  democracy. 

A  motley  rout  was  that  which  came  to  stare, 
In  raiment  tanned  by  years  of  sun  and  storm, 


THE  WASHINGTON  ELM,   CAMBIUEGE.   '.See  ?»e*  123. 


CAMBRIDGE.  127 

Of  every  shape  that  was  not  uniform, 

Dotted  with  regimentals  here  and  there ; 

An  army  all  of  captains,  used  to  pray 

And  stiff  in  fight,  but  serious  drill's  despair, 

Skilled  to  debate  their  orders,  not  obey ; 

Deacons  were  there,  selectmen,  men  of  note 

In  half -tamed  hamlets  ambushed  round  with  woods, 

Ready  to  settle  Freewill  by  a  vote, 

But  largely  liberal  to  its  private  moods ; 

Prompt  to  assert  by  manners,  voice,  or  pen, 

Or  ruder  arms,  their  rights  as  Englishmen, 

Nor  much  fastidious  as  to  how  and  when: 

Yet  seasoned  stuff  and  fittest  to  create 

A  thought-staid  army  or  a  lasting  state  : 

Haughty  they  said  he  was,  at  first ;   severe ; 

But  owned,  as  all  men  own,  the  steady  hand 

Upon  the  bridle,  patient  to  command, 

Prized,  as  all  prize,  the  justice  pure  from  fear, 

And  learned  to  honor  first,  then  love  him,  then  revere. 

Such  power  there  is  in  clear-eyed  self-restraint 

And  purpose  clean  as  light  from  every  selfish  taint. 

Musing  beneath  the  legendary  tree, 

The  years  between  furl  off:  I  seem  to  see 

The  sun-flecks,  shaken  the  stirred  foliage  through, 

Dapple  with  gold  his  sober  buff  and  blue, 

And  weave  prophetic  aureoles  round  the  head 

That  shines  our  beacon  now  nor  darkens  with  the  dead. 

0  man  of  silent  mood, 

A  stranger  among  strangers  then, 

How  art  thou  since  renowned  the  Great,  the  Good, 


128  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Familiar  as  the  day  in  all  the  homes  of  men ! 
The  winged  years,  that  winnow  praise  and  blame, 
Blow  many  names  out :  they  but  fan  to  flame 
The  self-renewing  splendors  of  thy  fame. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


MEMORIAL  HALL. 

AMID  the  elms  that  interlace 
Round  Harvard's  grounds  their  branches  tall, 
We  greet  no  walls  of  statelier  grace 
Than  thine,  our  proud  Memorial  Hall. 

Through  arching  boughs  and  roofs  of  green, 
Whose  dappled  lights  and  shadows  lie 
Along  the  turf  and  road,  is  seen 
Thy  noble  form  against  the  sky. 

And  miles  away  on  fields  and  streams, 
Or  where  the  woods  the  hill-tops  crown, 
The  monumental  temple  gleams, 
A  landmark  to  each  neighboring  town. 

Nor  this  alone.     New  England  knows 
A  deeper  meaning  in  the  pride 
Whose  stately  architecture  shows 
How  Harvard's  children  fought  and  died. 

Therefore  this  hallowed  pile  recalls 
The  heroes  young  and  true  and  brave, 
Who  gave  their  memories  to  these  walls, 
Their  lives  to  fill  the  soldier's  grave. 


CAMBRIDGE.  129 

The  farmer,  as  he  drives  his  team 
To  market  in  the  morn,  afar 
Beholds  the  golden  sunrise  gleam 
Upon  thee,  like  a  glistening  star. 

And  gazing,  he  remembers  well 
Why  stands  yon  tower  so  fair  and  tall; 
His  sons,  perhaps,  in  battle  fell : 
Tor  him,  too,  shines  Memorial  Hall. 

And  sometimes  as  the  student  glides 
Along  the  winding  Charles,  and  sees 
Across  the  flats  thy  glowing  sides 
Above  the  elms  and  willow-trees, 

Upon  his  oar  he  '11  turn  and  paiise, 

Remembering  the  heroic  aims 

Of  those  who  linked  their  country's  cause 

In  deathless  glory  with  their  names. 
*  *  * 

Christopher  Pearse  Cranck. 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD. 

OUR  ancient  church!  its  lowly  tower, 
Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 
Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 


130  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads,       * 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone ; 
The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share ;  — 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beating  air;  — 
The  rattling  cord,  — the  rolling  stone,  — 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone, 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years; 


CAMBRIDGE.  131 

But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge,  — 
Here  scattered  death ;  yet,  seek  the  spot, 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar,  —  and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free ! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 

In  many  a  chiselled  square, 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honored  names  were  there; 
Alas  !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazoned  tablets  knew, 
Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 

Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 


132  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone, 

The  empty  urn  of  pride ; 
There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,  — 

"What  need  of  more  beside? 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  ? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom; 
And  sigh,  for  Avhere  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes;  — 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride  ! 

I  wandered  to  thy  buried  mound 
When  earth  was  hid  below 

The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 
Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 


CAMBRIDGE.  133 

And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolled, 
As  if  a  Sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scattered  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear, 

To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone ;  — 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  passed  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 
May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 

Lie  on  thine  early  grave  ! 

When  damps  beneath,  and  storms  above, 

Have  bowed  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust-grove 

Shall  swing  its  Orient  flowers;  — 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  other's  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE. 

IN  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust-  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 
No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs  ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 
But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 


134  POEM3    OF    PLACES. 

Was  she  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours  ? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us?     No  one  speaks; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter?  —  And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 
In  your  own  shortcomings  and  despairs, 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors  ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


ST.  JOHN'S,  CAMBRIDGE, 

I  STAND  beneath  the  tree  whose  branches  shade 
Thy  western  window,  Chapel  of  St.  John ! 
And  hear  its  leaves  repeat  their  benison 
On  him  whose  hand  thy  stones  memorial  laid; 
Then  I  remember  one  of  whom  was  said, 
In  the  world's  darkest  hour,  "Behold  thy  son!" 
And  see  him  living  still,  and  wandering  on 


CAMBRIDGE.  135 

And  waiting  for  the  advent  long  delayed. 
Not  only  tongues  of  the  apostles  teach 
Lessons  of  love  and  light,  bnt  these  expanding 
And  sheltering  boughs  with  all  their  leaves  implore, 
And  say  in  language  clear  as  human  speech, 
"The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  understanding, 
Be  and  abide  with  you  forevermore ! " 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 


THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD. 

TO    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

WARM  and  still  is  the  summer  night, 
As  here  by  the  river's  brink  I  wander; 
White  overhead  are  the  stars,  and  white 

The  glimmering  lamps  on  the  hillside  yonder. 

Silent  are  all  the  sounds  of  day; 

Nothing  I  hear  but  the  chirp  of  crickets, 
And  the  cry  of  the  herons  winging  their  way 

O'er  the  poet's  house  in  the  Elmwood  thickets. 

Call  to  him,  herons,  as  slowly  you  pass 

To  your  roosts  in  the  haunts  of  the  exiled  thrushes, 
Sing  him  the  song  of  the  green  morass, 

And  the  tides  that  water  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

Sing  him  the  mystical  Song  of  the  Hern, 
And  the  secret  that  baffles  our  utmost  seeking ; 

For  only  a  sound  of  lament  we  discern, 

And  cannot  interpret  the  words  you  are  speaking. 


136  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Sing  of  the  air,  and  the  wild  delight 

Of  wings  that  uplift  and  winds  that  uphold  you, 
The  joy  of  freedom,  the  rapture  of  flight 

Through  the  drift  of  the  floating  mists  that  infold  you ; 

Of  the  landscape  lying  so  far  below, 

With  its  towns  and  rivers  and  desert  places ; 

And  the  splendor  of  light  above,  and  the  glow 
Of  the  limitless,  blue,  ethereal  spaces. 

Ask  him  if  songs  of  the  Troubadours, 
Or  of  Minnesingers  in  old  black-letter, 

Sound  in  his  ears  more  sweet  than  yours, 
And  if  yours  are  not  sweeter  and  wilder  and  better. 

Sing  to  him,  say  to  him,  here  at  his  gate, 
Where  the  boughs  of  the  stately  elms  are  meeting, 

Some  one  hath  lingered  to  meditate, 
And  send  him  unseen  this  friendly  greeting; 

That  many  another  hath  done  the  same, 

Though  not  by  a  sound  was  the  silence  broken; 

The  surest  pledge  of  a  deathless  name 

Is  the  silent  homage  of  thoughts  unspoken. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands; 


CAMBRIDGE.  13? 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms  • 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 
Singing  in  Paradise ! 


138  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  naming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  BRIDGE. 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 
And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 


CAMBRIDGE.  139 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  0,  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 
I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 

And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  0,  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide ! 

Tor  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 


140  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 

And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 
As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 

And  its  wavering  image  here. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


CAMBRIDGE.  141 


FELTON  AND  SUMMER. 

IN  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been, 
Or  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 
Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades, 
So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  serene 
And  childlike  joy  of  life,  O  Philhellene ! 
Around  thee  would  have  swarmed  the  Attic  bees; 
Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Socrates, 
And  Plato  welcomed  thee  to  his  demesne. 
Tor  thee  old  legends  breathed  historic  breath; 
Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple  sea, 
And  in  the  sunset  Jason's  fleece  of  gold ! 
O,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel  Death, 
Who  wast  so  full  of  life,  or  Death  with  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  die  before  thou  hadst  grown  old ! 

River,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace 

Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,  where  lies 

A  friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and  whom  these  eyes 

Shall  see  no  more  in  his  accustomed  place, 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace 

And  say  good  night,  for  now  the  western  skies 

Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists  arise 

Like  damps  that  gather  on  a  dead  man's  face. 

Good  night !   good  night !   as  we  so  oft  have  said 

Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the  days 

That  are  no  more,  and  shall  no  more  return. 

Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to  bedj 


142  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 

To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 

The  doors  are  all  wide  open ;    at  the  gate 
The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a  blaze, 
And  seem  to  warm  the  air ;   a  dreamy  haze 
Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows  like  a  fate, 
And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides  elate, 
The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  happier  days, 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name,  and  stays 
His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to  wait. 
I  also  wait;   but  they  will  come  no  more, 
Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  presence  satisfied 
The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart.     Ah  me  ! 
They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to  my  door  ! 
Something  is  gone  from  nature  since  they  died, 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

MOUNT  AUBURN. 

A  UBTJKN"  !  sweet  Auburn!  lovely  and  beloved! 
-£j-  Peace  real,  peace  lasting,  soul-enamoured  peace, 
The  low  soft-breathing  dreaminess  of  death 
Is  in  thee  and  around  thee;  yea,  thou  art 
The  type  of  that  which  only  death  can  bring, 
Quiet  forgetfulness  and  long  repose. 

Sweetness  is  thine  ineffable;  the  dead 
Repose  as  if  in  palaces ;  their  sleep 
So  beauteous  seems,  so  chaste,  so  calm,  so  still, 
That  one  might  almost  envy  them  the  bliss 


ENTRANCE  TO  MOUNT   AUBURN,   CAMBRIDGE.     See  page  143. 


CAMBRIDGE.  143 

Of  such  pure  slumber;  freed,  forever  freed, 
From  all  the  bitter  grief  of  this  cold  world, 
Its  void  pretences,  shallow  sympathies, 
And  crumbling  friendships  comfortless  and  cold. 
What  love  betrayed  —  how  many  a  broken  heart, 
What  misery  —  what  degradation  sleeps 
Beneath  thy  beauteous  bosom !  now  at  rest, 
Where  pain  can  weary  not,  nor  passion  enter  in. 
*  *  * 

William  Winter. 

MOUNT  AUBURN. 

SWEET  Auburn!  o'er  thy  rolling  slopes 
The  sparkling  winter  snows  are  spread; 
East,  fast  the  feathery  flakes  descend 

O'er  these  calm  dwellings  of  the  dead; 
And  evening  with  its  thickening  glooms, 
Enshrouds  the  city  of  the  tombs ! 

Yet  ere  the  latest  flame  of  day 

Along  these  devious  walks  shall  fade, 

Let  me  across  the  breezy  height 

Still  press,  and  through  each  sombrous  glade, 

And  commune  with  this  silent  crowd, 

In  stony  cell  and  swathing  shroud. 

Twilight  enkindles  with  its  blaze 

White  columns,  glimmering  all  around; 

High  soaring  obelisks,  that  throw 

Their  lengthening  shadows  o'er  the  ground; 

And  tapering  shafts,  and  gleaming  urns 

Whereon  day's  latest  incense  burns. 

Isaac  McLellan. 


144  POEMS  OF  PLACES. 


MOUNT  AUBURN  CEMETERY. 

THE  grave  is  clad  in  beauty!    Nature's  hand 
Profuse  hath  scattered  of  her  gifts  around; 
Here  to  the  eye  of  day  fair  flowers  expand, 

Perfume  the  glade,  and  gem  the  broken  ground. 
Here  forest  trees  arise,  a  varied  band, 

And  waters  still  by  willowy  margins  bound; 
Here  weep  the  dews,  and  through  the  bosky  dell 
The  breezes  come  with  greeting  and  farewell. 

The  grave  is  clad  in  beauty  !     Art  hath  given 
Her  aid  to  those  who  mourn,  and  mid  the  shade 

Gleams  emblematic  sculpture,  —  columns  riven, 
Lamps  shattered,  rosebuds  broken  and  decayed ; 

Pale  crosses  pointing  through  the  trees  to  heaven, 
And  infant  forms  in  graceful  slumber  laid; 

And  massive  doors  against  the  green  hill's  side, 

Sealed  till  the  angel's  voice  those  bonds  divide. 

The  grave  is  clad  in  bsauty !     It  is  well; 

Why  should  we  burden  more  the  weary  heart, 
Or  add  still  deeper  pangs  to  those  that  swell 

The  weeping  eyes,  or  causelessly  impart 
External  gloom,  where  all  should  kindly  tell 

Of  better  joys  than  such  as  thus  depart ; 
Of  hope  beyond  the  marble  and  the  sod, 
And  blessings  for  the  dead  who  die  in  God? 

Be  reverent  here,  and  think  of  Him  whose  tomb 
Was  in  a  garden  laid ;   who  bore  away 


CAMBRIDGE.  145 

From  death  the  sting,  the  terror,  and  the  gloom 
That,  mingled  in  his  cup  of  trembling,  lay  ; 

Who  sanctified  our  universal  doom, 

And  gladness  gave  to  it  for  chill  dismay, 

And  beautified  the  place  of  man's  repose, 

When  from  its  gloom  a  conqueror  he  rose. 

Jane  Rebecca,  Thomas, 


THE  SPHINX  AT  MOUNT  AUBUEN. 

HOW  grand  she  is  enthroned  among  the  dead, 
The  graves  like  trophies  all  about  her  spread! 
Have  these  not  perished  as  in  fable  old 
With  some  unfathomed  riddle  in  their  hold? 

But  what  the  riddle  that  she  now  doth  ask, 
The  might  of  man  so  fatally  to  task? 
Well  may  we  fancy  "What  are  Life  and  Death?" 
To  be  the  question  that  has  hushed  their  breath. 

Sphinx !  Life  and  Death  in  thee  their  type  have  found, 
For  so  are  they  in  mystic  oneness  bound; 
Fruitful  as  woman,  beautiful  as  she, 
Dread  as  the  lion  in  his  majesty. 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


146  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Cape  Ann,  Mass. 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 

WHERE  the   sea-waves   back  and  forward,  hoarse 
with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 
The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray  rocks 

of  Cape  Ann; 

On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  palisade, 
And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moonlight 
overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and  east- 
ward looking  forth 

O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white  with  breakers 
stretching  north,  — 

Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged  capes, 
with  bush  and  tree, 

Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and  gusty 


Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by  dying 

brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  muskets  in 

their  hands  ; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison  haunch 

was  shared, 
And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from  beard 

to  beard. 


CAPE    ANN.  147 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together,  —  talked  of  wizards 

Satan-sold ; 
Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises,  —  signs  and  wonders 

manifold ; 
Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men  in  her 

shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morning 

clouds ; 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of  Glouces- 
ter woods, 

Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer,  —  blooms  of  warmer 
latitudes ; 

Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's  flowery 
vines, 

And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the  twilight  of 
the  pines  ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky  tones 
of  fear, 

As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of  evil 
near ; 

Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim  of 
gun; 

Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of  mor- 
tals run  ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from  the 

midnight  wood  they  came,  — 
Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  unharmed, 

its  volleyed  flame; 


148  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in  earth 

or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit  sands 

lay  bare. 

Midnight  came ;  from   out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky 

mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly  marching 

in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts   or  witches,"  said  the   captain,  "thus  I  foil 

the  Evil  One  !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver    button,    from  his   doublet, 

down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded  wall 

about ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  palisades 

flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top  might 

not  shun 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant  wing 

to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless  shower 
of  lead. 

With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the  phan- 
toms fled; 

Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the  moon- 
light lay, 

And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted  slowly 
down  the  bay  ! 


CAPE    ANN.  149 

"  God  preserve  us  !  "  said  the  captain ;  "  never  mortal 

foes  were  there ; 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and  Power 

of  the  air  ! 
Lay  aside    your  useless  weapons;   skill  and  prowess 

naught  avail ; 
They  who   do  the  Devil's   service  wear  their  master's 

coat  of  mail !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to   cock-crow,  when  again  a 

warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round  the 

dusky  hall : 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they  longed 

for  break  of  day ; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible :  "  Let  us  cease  from 

man,  and  pray  !  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen  powers 

seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its  roots 

in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was  bowed 

and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the  captain 

led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching   of  the   spectres 

round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and 

hearts  of  all,  — 


148  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in  earth 

or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit  sands 

lay  bare. 

Midnight  came ;  from   out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky 

mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly  marching 

in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts   or  witches,"  said  the   captain,  "thus  I  foil 

the  Evil  One  !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver    button,   from  his   doublet, 

down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded  wall 

about ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  palisades 

flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top  might 

not  shun 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant  wing 

to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless  shower 
of  lead. 

With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the  phan- 
toms fled; 

Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the  moon- 
light lay, 

And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted  slowly 
down  the  bay  ! 


CAPE    ANN.  149 

"  God  preserve  us  !  "  said  the  captain ;  "  never  mortal 

foes  were  there ; 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and  Power 

of  the  air  ! 
Lay  aside    your  useless  weapons ;   skill  and  prowess 

naught  avail ; 
They  who   do  the  Devil's   service  wear  their  master's 

coat  of  mail !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to   cock-crow,  when  again  a 

warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round  the 

dusky  hall : 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they  longed 

for  break  of  day; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible :  "  Let  us  cease  from 

man,  and  pray  !  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen  powers 

seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its  roots 

in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was  bowed 

and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the  captain 

led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching   of  the    spectres 

round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and 

hearts  of  all,  — 


152  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  watch  his  lessening  dory  toss 
On  the  purple  crests  as  he  pulls  across, 
Round  reefs  where  silvery  surges  leap, 
And  meets  the  dawn  on  the  rosy  deep. 

His  soul,  is  it  open  to  sea  and  sky? 

His  spirit,  alive  to  sound  and  sight  ? 
What  wondrous  tints  on  the  water  lie, — 

"Wild,  wavering,  liquid  realm  of  light ! 
Between  two  glories  looms  the  shape 
Of  yon  wood-crested,  cool  green  cape, 
Sloping  all  round  to  foam-laced  ledge, 
And  cavern  and  cove,  at  the  bright  sea's  edge. 

He  makes  for  the  floats  that  mark  the  spots, 
And  rises  and  falls  on  the  sweeping  swells, 

Ships  oars,  and  pulls  his  lobster-pots, 
And  tumbles  the  tangled  claws  and  shells 

In  the  leaky  bottom ;  and  bails  his  skiff ; 

While  the  slow  waves  thunder  along  the  cliff, 

And  foam  far  away  where  sun  and  mist 

Edge  all  the  region  with  amethyst; 

I  watch  him,  and  fancy  how,  a  boy, 

Round  these  same  reefs,  in  the  rising  sun, 
He  rowed  and  rocked,  and  shouted  for  joy, 

As  over  the  boat-side,  one  by  one, 
He  lifted  and  launched  his  lobster-traps, 
And  reckoned  his  gains,  and  dreamed,  perhaps, 
Of  a  future  as  glorious,  vast,  and  bright 
As  the  ocean,  unrolled  in  the  morning  light. 
*  *  * 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


CAPE    COD.  153 

Cape  Cody  Mass. 

FIRST  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 

DAYS  pass,  winds  veer,  and  favoring  skies 
Change  like  the  face  of  fortune;  storms  arise; 
Safely,  but  not  within  her  port  desired, 

The  good  ship  lies. 

"Where  the  long  sandy  Cape 

Bends  and  embraces  round, 

As  with  a  lover's  arm,  the  sheltered  sea, 

A  haven  she  hath  found 
from  adverse  gales  and  boisterous  billows  free. 

Now  strike  your  sails, 

Ye  toilworn  mariners,  and  take  your  rest 

Long  as  the  fierce  northwest 

In  that  wild  fit  prevails, 

Tossing  the  waves  uptorn  with  frantic  sway. 

Keep  ye  within  the  bay, 

Contented  to  delay 

Your  course  till  the  elemental  madness  cease, 
And  heaven  and  ocean  are  again  at  peace. 

How  gladly  there, 

Sick  of  the  uncomfortable  ocean, 

The  impatient  passengers  approach  the  shore ; 

Escaping  from  the  sense  of  endless  motion, 

To  feel  firm  earth  beneath  their  feet  once  more, 

To  breathe  again  the  air 


154  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

With  taint  of  bilge  and  cordage  imdefiled, 

And  drink  of  living  springs,  if  there  they  may, 

And  with  fresh  fruits  and  wholesome  food  repair 

Their  spirits,  weary  of  the  watery  way. 

And  oh  !  how  beautiful 

The  things  of  earth  appear 

To  eyes  that  far  and  near 

Tor  many  a  week  have  seen 

Only  the  circle  of  the  restless  sea  ! 

With  what  a  fresh  delight 
They  gaze  again  on  fields  and  forests  green, 

Hovel,  or  whatsoe'er 

May  bear  the  trace  of  man's  industrious  hand; 

How  grateful  to  their  sight 

The  shore  of  shelving  sand, 

As  the  light  boat  moves  joyfully  to  land! 

Woods  they  beheld,  and  huts,  and  piles  of  wood, 

And  many  a  trace  of  toil, 
But  not  green  fields  or  pastures.     'T  was  a  land 

Of  pines  and  sand; 

Dark  pines,  that  from  the  loose  and  sparkling  soil 

Rose  in  their  strength  aspiring :  far  and  wide 

They  sent  their  searching  roots  on  every  side, 

And  thus,  by  depth  and  long  extension,  found 

Firm  hold  and  grasp  within  that  treacherous  ground: 

So  had  they  risen  and  nourished;  till  the  earth, 

Unstable  as  its  neighboring  ocean  there, 

Like  an  unnatural  mother,  heaped  around 

Their  trunks  its  wavy  furrows  white  and  high; 

And  stifled  thus  the  living  things  it  bore. 


CASCO    BAY.  155 

Half  buried  thus  they  stand, 

Their  summits  sere  and  dry, 

Marking,  like  monuments,  the  funeral  mound; 

As  when  the  masts  of  some  tall  vessel  show 

Where,   on  the  fatal   shoals,  the   wreck  lies  whelmed 

below. 

Robert  Southey* 


Casco  Bay,  Me. 

CASCO  BAY. 

"VTOWHEKE  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
1 1   Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay." 

On  the  grainlands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away. 


156  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 
By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 

Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering, 

Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 
On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow ; 
Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day, 

And  away,  swift  away, 
Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 

Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

John  Green  leaf  Whittier. 

WHITE  HEAD. 

FROM  the  pleasant  paths  I  used  to  tread 
Eull  many  a  mile  away, 
I  dream  of  the  rocks  of  old  White  Head, 

And  the  billows  of  Casco  Bay. 
I  sit  once  more  on  the  island  beach, 

Where  the  waves  dash  glad  and  high, 
And  listen  again  their  mystic  speech, 

As  the  murmurous  ranks  go  by; 
While,  lying  here  on  my  tiresome  bed, 

I  cheat  the  dreary  day 
By  fondly  picturing  old  White  Head 

And  the  waters  of  Casco  Bay. 

Beyond  it  the  laden  ships  go  out, 
Out  into  the  open  sea, 


CASCO    BAY.  157 

To  battle  with  danger,  and  storm,  and  doubt, 

And  the  ocean's  treachery ; 
And  the  homeward  vessels,  which  long  have  sped 

Through  tempest  and  spray  and  foam, 
Catch  first  a  glimmer  of  old  White  Head, 

And  are  sure  they  are  almost  home ; 
And  many  a  homesick  tear  is  shed 

By  Avanderers  miles  away, 
As  memory  whispers  of  old  White  Head, 

And  the  islands  of  Casco  Bay. 

Ah,  rarest  mosses  that  ever  were  seen 

Grow  brightly  on  old  White  Head; 
Orange,  and  russet,  and  emerald  green 

Wide  over  the  rocks  are  spread; 
And  when  the  sweet  June  sunlight  shines, 

The  gossiping  zephyr  tells 
Where  ruby  and  golden  columbines 

Are  swinging  their  myriad  bells. 
Ah,  thus,  as  I  lie  on  my  tiresome  bed, 

I  cheat  the  dreary  day 
By  summer  pictures  of  old  White  Head, 

And  the  billows  of  Casco  Bay. 

Did  I  forget?     It  is  winter  now 
On  the  islands  and  old  White  Head. 

The  snow  lies  deep  on  the  cliff's  high  brow, 
And  the  lichens  and  blooms  are  dead; 

Under  the  ice,  with  sob  and  sigh, 
The  prisoned  billows  heave, 


158  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  clouds  hang  dark,  and  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
And  the  winds  complain  and  grieve, — 

Yet,  lying  here  on  my  tiresome  bed, 
It  cheers  me  to  think  alway 

That  the  summer  is  shining  on   old  White  Head, 
And  the  islands  of  Casco  Bay  ! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


Charles,  the  River,  Mass. 

TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES, 

RIVER!  that  in  silence  windest 
Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

Tour  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 


CHARLES,    THE    RIVER.  159 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 

When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 
I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 

And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 

Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer^  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  1 
How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 

When  I  fan  the  living  embers 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart] 

'Tis  for  this,  thou  Silent  River  1 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giv^r, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


160  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


CHARLES  RIVER  MARSHES. 

BELOW,  the  Charles  — a  stripe  of  nether  sky, 
Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  between, 
Whose  gaps  the  misplaced  sail  sweeps  bellying  by, 
Now  flickering  golden  through  a  "woodland  screen, 
Then  spreading  out,  at  his  next  turn  beyond, 
A  silver  circle  like  an  inland  pond — • 
Slips  seaward  silently  through  marshes  purple  and  green. 

Dear  marshes  !   vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share, 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and  light, 
Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare ; 
Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 
On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 

For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  wonders 
rare. 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 
O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering  feet : 

Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  unseen, 
There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet; 

And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms  crowd, 

As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet. 

All  round,  upon  the  river's  slippery  edge, 
Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy  tide, 

Whispers  and  leans  the  breeze-entangling  sedge ; 


CHARLES,    THE    RIVER.  161 

Through  emerald  glooms  the  lingering  waters  slide, 
Or,  sometimes  wavering,  throw  back  the  sun, 
And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt  and  run 
Of  dimpling  light,  and  with  the  current  seem  to  glide. 

In  Summer  'tis  a  blithesome  sight  to  see, 
As,  step  by  step,  with  measured  swing,  they  pass, 

The  wide-ranked  mowers  wading  to  the  knee, 
Their   sharp  scythes    panting  through  the  thick-set 

grass; 

Then,  stretched  beneath  a  rick's  shade  in  a  ring, 
Their  nooning  take,  while  one  begins  to  sing 
A  stave  that  droops  and  dies  'neath  the  close  sky  of 
brass. 

Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 
Remembering  duty,  in  mid  quaver  stops 

Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremulous  brink, 
And  'twixt  the  windrows  most  demurely  drops, 

A  decorous  bird  of  business,  who  provides 

Tor  his  brown  mate  and  fledglings  six  besides, 
And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a  farmer  mid  his  crops. 

Another  change  subdues  them  in  the  Fall, 
But  saddens  not;  they  still  show  merrier  tints, 

Though  sober  russet  seems  to  cover  all; 
When    the   first    sunshine   through  their  dew-drops 

glints, 

Look  how  the  yellow  clearness,  streamed  across, 
Redeems  with  rarer  hues  the  season's  loss, 
As  Dawn's  feet  there  had  touched  and  left  their  rosy 
prints. 


162  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Or  come  when  sunset  gives  its  freshened  zest, 
Lean  o'er  the  bridge  and  let  the  ruddy  thrill, 

While  the  shorn  sun  swells  down  the  hazy  west, 
Glow  opposite ;  —  the  marshes  drink  their  fill 
And  swoon  with  purple  veins,  then  slowly  fade 
Through  pink  to   brown,  as   eastward  moves  the 

shade, 

Lengthening  with  stealthy  creep,  of  Simond's   darken- 
ing hill. 

Later,  and  yet  ere  Winter  wholly  shuts, 
Ere  through  the  first  dry  snow  the  runner  grates, 

And  the  loath  cart-wheel  screams  in  slippery  ruts, 
While  firmer  ice  the  eager  boy  awaits, 

Trying  each  buckle  and  strap  beside  the  fire, 
And  until  bedtime  plays  with  his  desire, 
Twenty    times    putting    on   and   off    his    new-bought 
skates ;  — 

Then,  every  morn,  the  river's  banks  shine  bright 
With  smooth  plate-armor,  treacherous  and  frail, 

By  the  frost's  clinking  hammers  forged  at  night, 
'Gainst  which  the  lances  of  the  sun  prevail, 
Giving  a  pretty  emblem  of  the  day 
When  guiltier  arms  in  light  shall  melt  away, 
And  states   shall  move  free-limbed,  loosed  from  war's 
cramping  mail. 

And  now  those  waterfalls  the  ebbing  river 
Twice  every  day  creates  on  either  side 

Tinkle,  as  through  their  fresh-sparred  grots  they 
shiver 


CHARLES,    THE    RIVER.  163 

In  grass-arched  channels  to  the  sun  denied; 

High  flaps  in  sparkling  blue  the  far-heard  crow, 
The  silvered  flats  gleam  frostily  below, 
Suddenly  drops  the  gull  and  breaks  the  glassy  tide. 

But  crowned  in  turn  by  vying  seasons  three, 
Their  winter  halo  hath  a  fuller  ring; 

This  glory  seems  to  rest  immovably,  — 
The  others  were  too  fleet  and  vanishing; 
When  the  hid  tide  is  at  its  highest  flow, 
O'er  marsh  and  stream  one  breathless   trance   of 

snow 
With  brooding  fulness  awes  and  hushes  everything. 

The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by  the  bleak  wind, 
As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day; 

Gropes  to  the  sea  the  river  dumb  and  blind; 
The  brown  ricks,  snow-thatched  by  the  storm  in  play, 
Show  pearly  breakers  combing  o'er  their  lee, 
White  crests  as  of  some  just  enchanted  sea, 
Checked  in  their  maddest  leap  and  hanging  poised  mid- 
way. 

But  when  the  eastern  blow,  with  rain  aslant, 
From  mid-sea's  prairies  green  and  rolling  plains 

Drives  in  his  wallowing  herds  of  billows  gaunt, 
And  the  roused  Charles  remembers  in  his  veins 
Old  Ocean's  blood  and  snaps  his  gyves  of  frost, 
That  tyrannous  silence  on  the  shores  is  tost 
In  dreary  wreck,  and  crumbling  desolation  reigns, 
*  *         .  * 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


164  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Concord  (Musketaquid),  Mass. 

MUSKETAQUID. 

"HECAUSE  I  was  content  with  these  poor  fields, 

-D  Low,  open  meads,  slender  and  sluggish  streams, 

And  found  a  home  in  haunts  which  others  scorned, 

The  partial  wood-gods  overpaid  my  love, 

And  granted  me  the  freedom  of  their  state, 

And  in  their  secret  senate  have  prevailed 

With  the  dear,  dangerous  lords  that  rule  our  life, 

Made  moon  and  planets  parties  to  their  bond, 

And  through  my  rock-like,  solitary  wont 

Shot  million  rays  of  thought  and  tenderness. 

For  me,  in  showers,  in  sweeping  showers,  the  spring 

Visits  the  valley ;  break  away  the  clouds,  — 

I  bathe  in  the  morn's  soft  and  silvered  air, 

And  loiter  willing  by  yon  loitering  stream. 

Sparrows  far  off,  and  nearer,  April's  bird, 

Blue-coated,  flying  before  from  tree  to  tree, 

Courageous,  sing  a  delicate  overture 

To  lead  the  tardy  concert  of  the  year. 

Onward  and  nearer  rides  the  sun  of  May ; 

And  wide  around,  the  marriage  of  the  plants 

Is  sweetly  solemnized.     Then  flows  amain 

The  surge  of  summer's  beauty;  dell  and  crag, 

Hollow  and  lake,  hillside,  and  pine  arcade, 

Are  touched  with  genius.     Yonder  ragged  cliff 

Has  thousand  faces  in  a  thousand  hours. 


CONCORD  (MUSKETAQUID).  165 

Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  unburies, 
Here  in  pine  houses  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 
Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell. 
Traveller,  to  thee,  perchance,  a  tedious  road, 
Or,  it  may  be,  a  picture ;  to  these  men, 
The  landscape  is  an  armory  of  powers, 
Which,  one  by  one,  they  know  to  draw  and  use. 
They  harness  beast,  bird,  insect,  to  their  work  ; 
They  prove  the  virtues  of  each  bed  of  rock, 
And,  like  the  chemist  mid  his  loaded  jars, 
Draw  from  each  stratum  its  adapted  use 
To  drug  their  crops  or  weapon  their  arts  withal. 
They  turn  the  frost  upon  their  cliemic  heap, 
They  set  the  wind  to  winnow  pulse  and  grain, 
They  thank  the  spring-flood  for  its  fertile  slime, 
Earlier,  on  cheap  summit-levels  of  the  snow, 
Slide  with  the  sledge  to  inaccessible  woods 
O'er  meadows  bottomless.     So,  year  by  year, 
They  fight  the  elements  with  elements, 
(That  one  would  say,  meadow  and  forest  walked, 
Transmuted  in  these  men  to  rule  their  like,) 
And  by  the  order  in  the  field  disclose 
The  order  regnant  in  the  yeoman's  brain. 

What  these  strong  masters  wrote  at  large  in  miles 
I  followed  in  small  copy  in  my  acre ; 
For  there  's  no  rood  has  not  a  star  above  it ; 
The  cordial  quality  of  pear  or  plum 


166  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Ascends  as  gladly  in  a  single  tree 

As  in  broad  orchards  resonant  with  bees; 

And  every  atom  poises  for  itself, 

And  for  the  whole.     The  gentle  deities 

Showed  me  the  lore  of  colors  and  of  sounds, 

The  innumerable  tenements  of  beauty, 

The  miracle  of  generative  force, 

Far-reaching  concords  of  astronomy 

Felt  in  the  plants,  and  in  the  punctual  birds  : 

Better,  the  linked  purpose  of  the  whole, 

And,  chiefest  prize,  found  I  true  liberty 

In  the  glad  home  plain-dealing  nature  gave. 

The  polite  found  me  impolite;  the  great 

Would  mortify  me,  but  in  vain;  for  still 

I  am  a  willow  of  the  wilderness, 

Loving  the  wind  that  bent  me.     All  my  hurts 

My  garden  spade  can  heal.     A  woodland  walk, 

A  quest  of  river-grapes,  a  mocking  thrush, 

A  wild-rose,  or  rock-loving  columbine, 

Salve  my  worst  wounds. 

For  thus  the  wood-gods  murmured  in  my  ear : 

"Dost  love  our  manners?     Canst  thou  silent  lie? 

Canst  thou,  thy  pride  forgot,  like  nature  pass 

Into  the  winter  night's  extinguished  mood  ? 

Canst  thou  shine  now,  then  darkle, 

And  being  latent  feel  thyself  no  less  ? 

As  when  the  all-worshipped  moon  attracts  the  eye, 

The  river,  hill,  stems,  foliage  are  obscure, 

Yet  envies  none,  none  are  unenviable." 

Waldo  Emerson. 


B 


CONCORD  (MUSKETAQUID).  167 

CONCOKD  FIGHT. 
Y  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood 


Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  Thee. 

Rafph  Waldo  Emerson. 

LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY   THE    GRAVES    OF   TWO  ENGLISH  SOLDIERS   ON 
CONCORD    BATTLE-GROUND. 

THE  same  good  blood  that  now  refills 
The  dotard  Orient's  shrunken  veins, 
The  same  whose  vigor  westward  thrills, 
Bursting  Nevada's  silver  chains, 
Poured  here  upon  the  April  grass, 


168  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Freckled  with  red  the  herbage  new; 
On  reeled  the  battle's  trampling  mass, 
Back  to  the  ash  the  bluebird  flew. 

Poured  here  in  vain ;  —  that  sturdy  blood 
Was  meant  to  make  the  earth  more  green, 
But  in  a  higher,  gentler  mood 
Than  broke  this  April  noon  serene ; 
Two  graves  are  here :  to  mark  the  place, 
At  head  and  foot,  an  unhewn  stone, 
O'er  which  the  herald  lichens  trace 
The  blazon  of  Oblivion. 

These  men  wefe  brave  enough,  and  true 
To  the  hired  soldier's  bull-dog  creed ; 
What  brought  them  here  they  never  knew, 
They  fought  as  suits  the  English  breed: 
They  came  three  thousand  miles,  and  died, 
To  keep  the  Past  upon  its  throne; 
Unheard,  beyond  the  ocean  tide,  • 
Their  English  mother  made  her  moan. 

The  turf  that  covers  them  no  thrill 
Sends  up  to  fire  the  heart  and  brain; 
No  stronger  purpose  nerves  the  will, 
No  hope  renews  its  youth  again : 
From  farm  to  farm  the  Concord  glides, 
And  trails  my  fancy  with  its  flow ; 
O'erhead  the  balanced  hen-hawk  slides, 
Twinned  in  the  river's  heaven  below. 
But  go,  whose  Bay  State  bosom  stirs, 
Proud  of  thy  birth  and  neighbor's  right, 


CONCORD  (MUSKETAQUID).  169 

Where  sleep  the  heroic  villagers 

Borne  red  and  stiff  from  Concord  fight ; 

Thought  Reuben,  snatching  down  his  gun, 

Or  Seth,  as  ebbed  the  life  away, 

What  earthquake  rifts  would  shoot  and  run 

World-wide  from  that  short  April  fray  ? 

What  then  ?    With  heart  and  hand  they  wrought, 
According  to  their  village  light; 
'Twas  for  the  Future  that  they  fought, 
Their  rustic  faith  in  what  was  right. 
Upon  earth's  tragic  stage  they  burst 
Unsummoned,  in  the  humble  sock  ; 
Theirs  the  fifth  act ;  the  curtain  first 
Rose  long  ago  on  Charles's  block. 

Their  graves  have  voices :  if  they  threw 

Dice  charged  with  fates  beyond  their  ken, 

Yet  to  their  instincts  they  were  true, 

And  had  the  genius  to  be  men. 

Fine  privilege  of  Freedom's  host, 

Of  even  foot-soldiers  for  the  Right !  — 

For  centuries  dead,  ye  are  not  lost, 

Your  graves  send  courage  forth,  and  might. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

HAWTHORNE. 

HOW  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 
In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase  away 
The  omnipresent  pain. 


170  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed; 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines ; 
I  only  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream  — 

The  hill- top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 
The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 


CONCORD  (MUSKETAQUID).  171 

Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 
And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah!  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


AT  HAWTHORNE'S  GEAYE. 
The  place  is  marked  by  the  one  word  "  Hawthorne." 

CAN  any  famous  marble  whose  broad  shaft 
Is  lettered  full  with  words  of  life  and  death, 
Whose  base  and  cap  assert  the  sculptor's  craft 
In  some  device  that  reins  the  rapid  breath; 
Can  any  meet  the  eye  with  such  a  power 
As  just  this  fragrant  word  of  simple  place  ? 
Had  ever  small,  white  stone  so  rich  a  dower? 
Ever  such  sovereignty,  so  little  space 
As  this?    Yet  best  befitted  in  a  word; 
Naught  would  one  add  for  majesty  of  Fame, 
Yet  standing  here  the  fancy  in  me  stirred 
To  hedge  his  rest  with  that  which  bears  his  name, 
That  Nature  might  in  his  memorial  share, 
Divulging,  with  her  blossoms,  who  lies  there. 

Charlotte  Fiskt  Bates. 


172  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


HAWTHORNE'S  GRAVE. 

rpALL  pines  like  sentinels  by  night  and  day 
JL   Keep  watch  and  ward  above  his  place  of  rest, 
And  when  the  sun  has  vanished  down  the  west, 
And  night  and  darkness  hold  their  mystic  sway; 
When  the  pale   moon  looks  down  through  clouds  of 

gray 

On  the  white  city  where  to  sleep  addressed 
Naught  can  disturb  the  dwellers,  naught  molest; 
When  all  is  still,  so  still  that  one  may  pray, — 
Then,  then  those  forest  veterans,  those  old  trees 
Standing  on  guard  for  many  a  long,  long  year, 
Clasp  hands,  and,  pointing  where  the  genius  lies 
And  has  so  long  lain  undisturbed  at  ease, 
They  say,  "Does  not  the  time  at  length  draw  near? 
Long  have  we  watched ;  when  will  the  sleeper  rise  ?  " 

Frank  Dexter  Masonf 


DIRGE. 

KNOWS  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field, 
To  reap  its  scanty  corn, 
What  mystic  fruit  his  acres  yield 
At  midnight  and  at  morn? 

In  the  long  sunny  afternoon 
The  plain  was  full  of  ghosts; 

I  wandered  up,  I  wandered  down, 
Beset  by  pensive  hosts. 


CONCORD  (MUSKETAQUID).  173 

The  winding  Concord  gleamed  below, 

Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 
As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago, 

Came  with  me  to  the  wood. 

But  they  are  gone,  —  the  holy  ones 
Who  trod  with  me  this  lovely  vale ; 

The  strong,  star-bright  companions 
Are  silent,  low,  and  pale. 

My  good,  my  noble,  in  their  prime, 
Who  made  this  world  the  feast  it  was, 

Who  learned  with  me  the  lore  of  time, 
Who  loved  this  dwelling-place ! 

They  took  this  valley  for  their  toy, 
They  played  with  it  in  every  mood; 

A  cell  for  prayer,  a  hall  for  joy,  — 
They  treated  nature  as  they  would. 

They  colored  the  horizon  round; 

Stars  flamed  and  faded  as  they  bade; 
All  echoes  hearkened  for  their  sound,  — 

They  made  the  woodlands  glad  or  mad. 

I  touch  this  flower  of  silken  leaf, 
Which  once  our  childhood  knew; 

Its  soft  leaves  wound  me  with  a  grief 
Whose  balsam  never  grew. 

Hearken  to  yon  pine-warbler 

Singing  aloft  in  the  tree  ! 
Hearest  thou,  O  traveller, 

What  he  singeth  to  me? 


174  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Not  unless  God  made  sharp  thine  ear 

With  sorrow  such  as  mine, 
Out  of  that  delicate  lay  couldst  thou 

Its  heavy  tale  divine. 

"  Go,  lonely  man,"  it  saith ; 

"They  loved  thee  from  their  birth; 
Their  hands  were  pure,  and  pure  their  faith, — 

There  are  no  such  hearts  on  earth. 

"Ye  drew  one  mother's  milk, 

One  chamber  held  ye  all; 
A  very  tender  history 

Did  in  your  childhood  fall. 

"  Ye  cannot  unlock  your  heart, 

The  key  is  gone  with  them ; 
The  silent  organ  loudest  chants 

The  master's  requiem." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


THOREAU'S  FLUTE. 

WE,  sighing,  said,  "  Our  Pan  is  dead ; 
His  pipe  hangs  mute  beside  the  river; — 
Around  it  wistful  sunbeams  quiver, 
But  Music's  airy  voice  is  fled. 
Spring  mourns  as  for  untimely  frost; 
The  bluebird  chants  a  requiem; 
The  willow-blossom  waits  for  him;  — 
The  Genius  of  the  wood  is  lost." 


CONCOED  (MUSKETAQUID).  175 

Then  from  the  flute,  untouched  by  hands, 
There  came  a  low,  harmonious  breath: 
"  For  such  as  he  there  is  no  death ;  — 

His  life  the  eternal  life  commands ; 

Above  man's  aims  his  nature  rose  : 
The  wisdom  of  a  just  content 
Made  one  small  spot  a  continent, 

And  turned  to  poetry  Life's  prose. 

"Haunting  the  hills,  the  stream,  the  wild, 
Swallow  and  aster,  lake  and  pine, 
To  him  grew  human  or  divine,  — 

Fit  mates  for  this  large-hearted  child. 

Such  homage  Nature  ne'er  forgets, 
And  yearly  on  the  coverlid 
'Neath  which  her  darling  lieth  hid 

Will  write  his  name  in  violets. 

"To  him  no  vain  regrets  belong, 
Whose  soul,  that  finer  instrument, 
Gave  to  the  world  no  poor  lament, 

But  wood-notes  ever  sweet  and  strong. 

O  lonely  friend !  he  still  will  be 

A  potent  presence,  though  unseen,  — 
Steadfast,  sagacious,  and  serene : 

Seek  not  for  him,  —  he  is  with  thee." 

Anonymous. 


176  POEMS    OF  PLACES. 


WALDEN  LAKE. 

Fis  not  far  beyond  the  village  church, 
After  we  pass  the  wood  that  skirts  the  road, 
A  lake,  —  the  blue-eyed  Walden,  that  doth  smile 
Most  tenderly  upon  its  neighbor  pines; 
And  they,  as  if  to  recompense  this  love, 
In  double  beauty  spread  their  branches  forth. 
This  lake  has  tranquil  loveliness  and  breadth, 
And,  of  late  years,  has  added  to  its  charms ; 
For  one  attracted  to  its  pleasant  edge 
Has  built  himself  a  little  hermitage, 
Where  with  much  piety  he  passes  life. 

More  fitting  place  I  cannot  fancy  now, 
For  such  a  man  to  let  the  line  run  off 
The  mortal  reel,  —  such  patience  hath  the  lake, 
Such  gratitude  and  cheer  is  in  the  pines. 
But  more  than  either  lake  or  forest's  depths 
This  man  has  in  himself:  a  tranquil  man, 
With  sunny  sides  where  well  the  fruit  is  ripe, 
Good  front  and  resolute  bearing  to  this  life, 
And  some  serener  virtues,  which  control 
This  rich  exterior  prudence,  —  virtues  high, 
That  in  the  principles  of  things  are  set, 
Great  by  their  nature,  and  consigned  to  him, 
Who,  like  a  faithful  merchant,  does  account 
To  God  for  what  he  spends,  and  in  what  way. 
Thrice  happy  art  thou,  Walden,  in  thyself  ! 
Such  purity  is  in  thy  limpid  springs, — 


CONCORD  (MUSKETAQUID).  177 

In  those  green  shores  which  do  reflect  in  thee, 
And  in  this  man  who  dwells  upon  thy  edge, 
A  holy  man  within  a  hermitage. 
May  all  good  showers  fall  gently  into  thee, 
May  thy  surrounding  forests  long  be  spared, 
And  may  the  dweller  on  thy  tranquil  marge 
There  lead  a  life  of  deep  tranquillity, 
Pure  as  thy  waters,  handsome  as  thy  shores, 
And  with  those  virtues  which  are  like  the  stars ! 
William  Ellery  Charming, 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

NO  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathedral  stoops, 
No  winding  torches  paint  the  midnight  air; 
Here  the  green  pines  delight,  the  aspen  droops 

Along  the  modest  pathways,  and  those  fair 

Pale  asters  of  the  season  spread  their  plumes 

Around  this  field,  fit  garden  for  our  tombs. 

And  shalt  thou  pause  to  hear  some  funeral  bell 
Slow  stealing  o'er  thy  heart  in  this  calm  place, 

Not  with  a  throb  of  pain,  a  feverish  knell, 
But  in  its  kind  and  supplicating  grace, 

It  says,  Go,  pilgrim,  on  thy  march,  be  more 
Friend  to  the  friendless  than  thou  wast  before; 

Learn  from  the  loved  one's  rest  serenity ; 

To-morrow  that  soft  bell  for  thee  shall  sound, 
And  thou  repose  beneath  the  whispering  tree, 

One  tribute  more  to  this  submissive  ground ;  — 


178  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Prison  thy  soul  from  malice,  bar  out  pride, 
Nor  these  pale  flowers  nor  this  still  field  deride : 

Rather  to  those  ascents  of  being  turn, 

Where  a  ne'er-setting  sun  illumes  the  year 

Eternal,  and  the  incessant  watch-fires  burn, 
Of  unspent  holiness  and  goodness  clear,  — 

Forget  man's  littleness,  deserve  the  best, 

God's  mercy  in  thy  thought  and  life  confest. 

William  Ellery  Channing* 


Concord,  the  River. 

TWO  RIVERS. 

THY  summer  voice,  Musketaquit, 
Repeats  the  music  of  the  rain ; 
But  sweeter  rivers  pulsing  flit 
Through  thee,  as  thou  through  Concord  Plain. 

Thou  in  thy  narrow  banks  art  pent: 
The  stream  I  love  unbounded  goes 
Through  flood  and  sea  and  firmament ; 
Through  light,  through  life,  it  forward  flows. 

I  see  the  inundation  sweet, 

I  hear  the  spending  of  the  stream 

Through  years,  through  men,  through  nature  fleet, 

Through  love  and  thought,  through  power  and  dream. 

Musketaquit,  a  goblin  strong, 

Of  shard  and  flint  makes  jewels  gay; 


CONCORD,    THE    RIVER.  179 

They  lose  their  grief  who  hear  his  song, 
And  where  he  winds  is  the  day  of  day. 

So  forth  and  brighter  fares  my  stream, — 
Who  drink  it  shall  not  thirst  again; 
No  darkness  stains  its  equal  gleam, 

And  ages  drop  in  it  like  rain. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


FAIRHAVEN  BAY. 

I  PUSH  on  through  the  shaggy  wood, 
I  round  the  hill :    't  is  here  it  stood ; 
And  there,  beyond  the  crumbled  walls, 
The  shining  Concord  slowly  crawls, 

Yet  seems  to  make  a  passing  stay, 
And  gently  spreads  its  lilied  bay, 
Curbed  by  this  green  and  reedy  shore, 
Up  toward  the  ancient  homestead's  door. 

But  dumbly  sits  the  shattered  house, 
And  makes  no  answer :  man  and  mouse 
Long  since  forsook  it,  and  decay 
Chokes  its  deep  heart  with  ashes  gray. 

On  what  was  once  a  garden-ground 
Dull  red-bloomed  sorrels  now  abound; 
And  boldly  whistles  the  shy  quail 
Within  the  vacant  pasture's  pale. 

Ah,  strange  and  savage,  where  he  shines, 
The  sun  seems  staring  through  those  pines 


180  POEMS  OF  PLACES. 

That  once  the  vanished  home  could  bless 
With  intimate,  sweet  loneliness. 

The  ignorant,  elastic  sod 

The  feet  of  them  that  daily  trod 

Its  roods  hatli  utterly  forgot : 

The  very  fireplace  knows  them  not. 

Tor,  in  the  weedy  cellar,  thick 

The  ruined  chimney's  mass  of  brick 

Lies  strown.     Wide  heaven,  with  such  an  ease 

Dost  thou,  too,  lose  the  thought  of  these? 

Yet  I,  although  I  know  not  who 
Lived  here,  in  years  that  voiceless  grew 
Ere  I  was  born,  —  and  never  can,  — 
Am  moved,  because  I  am  a  man. 

0  glorious  gift  of  brotherhood ! 

O  sweet  elixir  in  the  blood, 

That  makes  us  live  with  those  long  dead, 

Or  hope  for  those  that  shall  be  bred 

Hereafter!     No  regret  can  rob 
My  heart  of  this  delicious  throb ; 
No  thought  of  fortunes  haply  wrecked, 
Nor  pang  for  nature's  wild  neglect. 

And,  though  the  hearth  be  cracked  and  cold, 
Though  ruin  all  the  place  enfold, 
These  ashes  that  have  lost  their  name 
Shall  warm  my  life  with  lasting  flame ! 

George  Parsons  Lathrop. 


CONNECTICUT,    THE    RIVER.  181 


Connecticut,  the  River. 

TO  CONNECTICUT  KIYER. 

FROM  that  lone  lake,  the  sweetest  of  the  chain 
That  links  the  mountain  to  the  mighty  main, 
Fresh  from  the  rock  and  welling  by  the  tree, 
Rushing  to  meet  and  dare  and  breast  the  sea, 
Pair,  noble,  glorious  river  !  in  thy  wave 
The  sunniest  slopes  and  sweetest  pastures  lave  ; 
The  mountain  torrent,  with  its  wintry  roar, 
Springs  from  its  home  and  leaps  upon  thy  shore; 
The  promontories  love  thee,  and  for  this 
Turn  their  rough  cheeks  and  stay  thee  for  thy  kiss. 
Stern,  at  thy  source,  thy  northern  guardians  stand, 
Rude  rulers  of  the  solitary  land, 
Wild  dwellers  by  thy  cold  sequestered  springs, 
Of  earth  the  feathers  and  of  air  the  wings; 
Their  blasts  have  rocked  thy  cradle,  and  in  storm 
Covered  thy  couch  and  swathed  in  snow  thy  form; 
Yet,  blessed  by  all  the  elements  that  sweep 
The  clouds  above,  or  the  unfathomed  deep, 
The  purest  breezes  scent  thy  blooming  hills, 
The  gentlest  dews  drop  on  thy  eddying  rills, 
By  the  mossed  bank  and  by  the  aged  tree 
The  silver  streamlet  smoothest  glides  to  thee, 
The  young  oak  greets  thee  at  the  waters'  edge, 
Wet  by  the  wave,  though  anchored  in  the  ledge. 
'T  is  there  the  otter  dives,  the  beaver  feeds, 


182  POEMS  OF  PLACES. 

Where  pensive  osiers  dip  their  willowy  weeds, 
And  there  the  wild-cat  purs  amid  her  brood, 
And  trains  them,  in  the  sylvan  solitude, 
To  watch  the  squirrel's  leap,  or  mark  the  mink 
Paddling  the  water  by  thy  quiet  brink, 
Or  to  outgazc  the  gray  owl  in  the  dark, 
Or  hear  the  young  fox  practising  to  bark. 
*  *  * 

Thou  didst  not  shake,  thou  didst   not  shrink,  when 

late 

The  mountain-top  shut  down  its  ponderous  gate, 
Tumbling  its  tree-grown  ruins  to  thy  side, 
An  avalanche  of  acres  at  a  slide. 
Nor  dost  thou  stay  when  winter's  coldest  breath 
Howls    through    the    woods    and    sweeps    along    the 

heath,  — 

One  mighty  sigh  relieves  thy  icy  breast, 
And  wakes  thee  from  the  calmness  of  thy  rest. 

Down  sweeps  the  torrent  ice,  —  it  may  not  stay 
By  rock  or  bridge,  in  narrow  or  in  bay ; 
Swift,  swifter  to  the  heaving  sea  it  goes, 
And  leaves  thee  dimpling  in  thy  sweet  repose. 
Yet,  as  the  unharmed  swallow  skims  his  way, 
And  lightly  drops  his  pinions  in  thy  spray, 
So  the  swift  sail  shall  seek  thy  inland  seas, 
And  swell  and  whiten  in  thy  purer  breeze, 
New  paddles  dip  thy  waters,  and  strange  oars 
Feather  thy  waves  and  touch  thy  noble  shores. 

Thy  noble  shores  !  where  the  tall  steeple  shines, 
At  midday,  higher  than  thy  mountain  pines  ; 
Where  the  white  school-house,  with  its  daily  drill 


CONNECTICUT,    THE    RIVER.  183 

Of  sunburnt  children,  smiles  upon  the  hill; 
Where  the  neat  village  grows  upon  the  eye, 
Decked  forth  in  nature's  sweet  simplicity ; 
"Where  hard- won  competence,  the  farmer's  wealth, 
Gains  merit  honor,  and  gives  labor  health; 
Where  Goldsmith's  self  might  send  his  exiled  band 
To  find  a  new  "Sweet  Auburn"  in  our  land. 

What  art  can  execute  or  taste  devise, 
Decks  thy  fair  course  and  gladdens  in  thine  eyes, 
As  broader  sweep  the  bendings  of  thy  stream, 
To  meet  the  southern  sun's  more  constant  beam. 
Here  cities  rise,  and  sea-washed  commerce  hails 
Thy  shores  and  winds,  with  all  her  flapping  sails, 
From  tropic  isles,  or  from  the  torrid  main, 
Where  grows  the  grape  or  sprouts  the  sugar-cane, 
Or  from  the  haunts  where  the  striped  haddock  play, 
By  each  cold  northern  bank  and  frozen  bay. 
Here,  safe  returned  from  every  stormy  sea, 
Waves  the  striped  flag,  the  mantle  of  the  free, — 
That  starlit  flag,  by  all  the  breezes  curled 
Of  yon  vast  deep  whose  waters  grasp  the  world. 
*  *  * 

John  Gardner  Calkins  Brainard. 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

FAIR  river!  not  unknown  to  classic  song, 
Which  still  in  varying  beauty  roll'st  along, 
Where  first  thy  infant  fount  is  faintly  seen, 
A  line  of  silver  mid  a  fringe  of  green; 


184  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Or  where  near  towering  rocks  thy  bolder  tide, 
To  win  the  giant-guarded  pass,  doth  glide; 
Or  where  in  azure  mantle  pure  and  free 
Thou  giv'st  thy  cool  hand  to  the  waiting  sea. 

Though  broader  streams  our  sister  realms  may  boast, 
Herculean  cities,  and  a  prouder  coast, 
Yet  from  the  bound  where  hoarse  St.  Lawrence  roars, 
To  where  La  Plata  rocks  resounding  shores, 
From  where  the  arms  of  slimy  Nilus  shine, 
To  the  blue  waters  of  the  rushing  Rhine, 
Or  where  Ilissus  glows  like  diamond  spark, 
Or  sacred  Ganges  whelms  her  votaries  dark, 
No  brighter  skies  the  eye  of  day  may  see, 
Nor  soil  more  verdant,  nor  a  race  more  free. 

See !  where  amid  their  cultured  vales  they  stand, 
The  generous  offspring  of  a  simple  land; 
Too  rough  for  flattery,  and  all  fear  above, 
King,  priest,  and  prophet  mid  the  homes  they  love,  — 
On  equal  laws  their  anchored  hopes  are  stayed, 
By  all  interpreted  and  all  obeyed ; 
Alike  the  despot  and  the  slave  they  hate, 
And  rise,  firm  columns  of  a  happy  state. 
To  them  content  is  bliss,  and  labor  health, 
And  knowledge  power,  and  pure  religion  wealth. 

The  farmer,  here,  with  honest  pleasure  sees 
His  orchards  blushing  to  the  fervid  breeze, 
His  bleating  flocks  the  shearer's  care  that  need, 
His  waving  woods  the  wintry  hearth  that  feed, 


CUMMINGTON.  185 

His  hardy  steers  that  break  the  yielding  soil, 
His  patient  sons  who  aid  their  father's  toil, 
The  ripening  fields  for  joyous  harvest  drest, 
And  the  white  spire  that  points  a  world  of  rest. 
*  *  * 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 


Cummington,  Mass. 

LINES  ON  EEYISITING  THE  COUNTKY. 

I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 
Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  summer  sky, 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie; 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains,  —  to  behold 

With  deep  affection  the  pure  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled,  — 


186  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 
The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

Here  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air; 

And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 

Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun  !  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier  green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows ;  when,  in  the  sultry  time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime  ! 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE  RIYULET. 

THIS  little  rill,  that  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  awhile,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 


This  little  rill,  that  from  the  springs."    See  page  186. 


CUMMINGTON.  187 

My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim. 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 
Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Passed  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.     Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever  joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 


188  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  winding  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thon  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run ; 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Moats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress: 
And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not,  —  but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past,  — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I  've  tried  the  world,  —  it  wears  no  more 
The  coloring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  in  my  earliest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 


CUMMINGTON.  189 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date), 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favorite  brook. 
Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  carl ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  fiow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep  —  and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Cliildren  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  hoary  age  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

BRYANT'S  BIRTHPLACE. 

AMID  these  haunts  a  poet's  boyhood  drew 
The  inspiring  breath  of  Nature  and  of  God; 
On  his  young  vision  broke  divinely  true, 


190  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

While  through  these  very  woodland  ways  he  trod, 
That  view  of  death  that  soothes  the  spirit  so, 
That  perfect  work  of  life's  imperfect  age; 
In  this  doth  Genius  clearly,  grandly  show 
How  soon  her  own  may  claim  their  heritage. 
Here  myriad  thought-tones  swept  his  being  through, 
Which,  linked  and  blended  in  some  after  time 
Midst  the  world's  noise,  to  finished  music  grew, 
"Rolling  forth  chords,  now  tender,  now  sublime. 
Here  the  fringed  gentian  of  the  poet  blows; 
Yielding  dim  odor,  yellow  violets  still 
Jewel  Spring's  naked  bosom  till  it  glows, 
While  yet  the  air  holds  fast  its  wintry  chill. 
Nature,  as  grateful  for  her  true  son's  love, 
At  his  return  seems  pouring  out  her  joy; 
Shows  him  new  blossoms  in  some  leafy  cove, 
Yet  shares  with  him  far  memories  of  the  boy; 
And  here  the  laurelled  poet  loves  to  come, 
And  finds  his  soul,  despite  the  years,  at  home. 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


Dover  (Cocheco),  N.  H. 

JOHN  UNDEEHILL. 

A  SCORE  of  years  had  come  and  gone 
Since  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  Plymouth  stone, 
When  Captain  Underbill,  bearing  scars 
Erom  Indian  ambush  and  Flemish  wars, 


DOVER    (COCHECO).  191 

Left  three-hilled  Boston  and  wandered  down, 
East  by  north,  to  Cocheco  town. 

With  Yane  the  younger,  in  counsel  sweet, 
He  had  sat  at  Anna  Hutchinson's  feet, 
And,  when  the  bolt  of  banishment  fell 
On  the  head  of  his  saintly  oracle, 
He  had  shared  her  ill  as  her  good  report, 
And  braved  the  wrath  of  the  General  Court. 

He  shook  from  his  feet  as  he  rode  away 

The  dust  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay. 

The  world  might  bless  and  the  world  might  ban, 

What  did  it  matter  the  perfect  man, 

To  whom  the  freedom  of  earth  was  given, 

Proof  against  sin,  and  sure  of  heaven  ? 

He  cheered  his  heart  as  he  rode  along 
With  screed  of  Scripture  and  holy  song, 
Or  thought  how  he  rode  with  his  lances  free 
By  the  Lower  Rhine  and  the  Zuyder-Zee, 
Till  his  wood-path  grew  to  a  trodden  road, 
And  Hilton  Point  in  the  distance  showed. 

He  saw  the  church  with  the  block-house  nigh, 
The  two  fair  rivers,  the  flakes  thereby, 
And,  tacking  to  windward,  low  and  crank, 
The  little  shallop  from  Strawberry  Bank; 
And  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  looked  abroad 
Over  land  and  water,  and  praised  the  Lord. 

Goodly  and  stately  and  grave  to  see, 
Into  the  clearing's  space  rode  he, 


192  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

With  the  sun  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword  in  sheath, 
And  his  silver  buckles  and  spurs  beneath, 
And  the  settlers  welcomed  him,  one  and  all, 
Erom  swift  Quampeagan  to  Gonic  Pall. 

And  he  said  to  the  elders :  "  Lo,  I  come 
As  the  way  seemed  open  to  seek  a  home. 
Somewhat  the  Lord  hath  wrought  by  my  hands 
In  the  Narragansett  and  Netherlands, 
And  if  here  ye  have  work  for  a  Christian  man, 
I  will  tarry,  and  serve  ye  as  best  I  can. 

"I  boast  not  of  gifts,  but  fain  would  own 

The  wonderful  favor  God  hath  shown, 

The  special  mercy  vouchsafed  one  day 

On  the  shore  of  Narragansett  Bay, 

As  I  sat,  with  my  pipe,  from  the  camp  aside, 

And  mused  like  Isaac  at  eventide. 

"  A  sudden  sweetness  of  peace  I  found, 
A  garment  of  gladness  wrapped  me  round; 
I  felt  from  the  law  of  works  released, 
The  strife  of  the  flesh  and  spirit  ceased, 
My  faith  to  a  full  assurance  grew, 
And  all  I  had  hoped  for  myself  I  knew. 

"Now,  as  God  appointeth,  I  keep  my  way, 
I  shall  not  stumble,  I  shall  not  stray; 
He  hath  taken  away  my  fig-leaf  dress, 
I  wear  the  robe  of  his  righteousness ; 
And  the  shafts  of  Satan  no  more  avail 
Than  Pequot  arrows  on  Christian  mail." 


DOVER    (COCHECO).  193 

"  Tarry  with  us,"  the  settlers  cried, 
"Thou  man  of  God,  as  our  ruler  and  guide." 
And  Captain  Underbill  bowed  his  head. 
"  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done  ! "  he  said. 
And  the  morrow  beheld  him  sitting  down 
In  the  ruler's  seat  in  Cocheco  town. 

And  he  judged  therein  as  a  just  man  should; 
His  words  were  wise  and  his  rule  was  good; 
He  coveted  not  his  neighbor's  land, 
From  the  holding  of  bfibes  he  shook  his  hand; 
And  through  the  camps  of  the  heathen  ran 
A  wholesome  fear  of  the  valiant  man. 

But  the  heart  is  deceitful,  the  good  Book  saith, 
And  life  hath  ever  a  savor  of  death. 
Through  hymns  of  triumph  the  tempter  calls, 
And  whoso  thinketh  he  standeth  falls. 
Alas!  ere  their  round  the  seasons  ran, 
There  was  grief  in  the  soul  of  the  saintly  man. 

The  tempter's  arrows  that  rarely  fail 

Had  found  the  joints  of  his  spiritual  mail; 

And  men  took  note  of  his  gloomy  air, 

The  shame  in  his  eye,  the  halt  in  his  prayer, 

The  signs  of  a  battle  lost  within, 

The  pain  of  a  soul  in  the  coils  of  sin. 

Then  a  whisper  of  scandal  linked  his  name 
With  broken  vows  and  a  life  of  blame ; 
And  the  people  looked  askance  on  him 
As  he  walked  among  them  sullen  and  grim, 


194  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Ill  at  ease,  and  bitter  of  word, 

And  prompt  of  quarrel  with  hand  or  sword. 

None  knew  how,  with  prayer  and  fasting  still, 
He  strove  in  the  bonds  of  his  evil  will ; 
But  he  shook  himself  like  Samson  at  length, 
And  girded  anew  his  loins  of  strength, 
And  bade  the  crier  go  up  and  down 
And  call  together  the  wondering  town. 

Jeer  and  murmur  and  shalfcing  of  head 
Ceased  as  he  rose  in  his  place  and  said : 
"Men,  brethren,  and  fathers,  well  ye  know 
How  I  came  among  you  a  year  ago, 
Strong  in  the  faith  that  my  soul  was  freed 
From  sin  of  feeling,  or  thought,  or  deed. 

"I  have  sinned,  I  own  it  with  grief  and  shame, 

But  not  with  a  lie  on  my  lips  I  came. 

In  my  blindness  I  verily  thought  my  heart 

Swept  and  garnished  in  every  part. 

He  chargeth  His  angels  Avith  folly;  He  sees 

The  heavens  unclean.     Was  I  more  than  these? 

"I  urge  no  plea.     At  your  feet  I  lay 
The  trust  you  gave  me,  and  go  my  way. 
Hate  me  or  pity  me,  as  you  will, 
The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  sinners  still; 
And  I,  who  am  chiefest,  say  to  all, 
Watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  also  fall." 

No  voice  made  answer :  a  sob  so  low 
That  only  his  quickened  ear  could  know 


DOVEIl    (COCHECO).  195 

Smote  his  heart  with  a  bitter  pain, 

As  into  the  forest  he  rode  again, 

And  the  veil  of  its  oaken  leaves  shut  down 

On  his  latest  glimpse  of  Cocheco  town. 

Crystal-clear  on  the  man  of  sin 
The  streams  flashed  up,  and  the  sky  shone  in; 
On  his  cheek  of  fever  the  cool  wind  blew, 
The  leaves  dropped  on  him  their  tears  of  dew, 
And  angels  of  God,  in  the  pure,  sweet  guise 
Of  flowers,  looked  on  him  with  sad  surprise. 

Was  his  ear  at  fault  that  brook  and  breeze 
Sang  in  their  saddest  of  minor  keys  ? 
What  was  it  the  mournful  wood-thrush  said? 
What  whispered  the  pine-trees  overhead  ? 
Did  he  hear  the  Voice  on  his  lonely  way 
That  Adam  heard  in  the  cool  of  day1? 

Into  the  desert  alone  rode  he, 

Alone  with  the  Infinite  Purity; 

And,  bowing  his  soul  to  its  tender  rebuke, 

As  Peter  did  to  the  Master's  look, 

He  measured  his  path  with  prayers  of  pain 

For  peace  with  God  and  nature  again. 

And  in  after  years  to  Cocheco  came 

The  bruit  of  a  once  familiar  name; 

How  among  the  Dutch  of  New  Netherlands, 

Prom  wild  Danskamer  to  Haarlem  sands, 

A  penitent  soldier  preached  the  Word, 

And  smote  the  heathen  with  Gideon's  sword  ! 


196  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  heart  of  Boston  was  glad  to  hear 
How  he  harried  the  foe  on  the  long  frontier, 
And  heaped  on  the  land  against  him  barred 
The  coals  of  his  generous  watch  and  ward. 
Frailest  and  bravest !  the  Bay  State  still 
Counts  with  her  worthies  John  Underbill. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Ellis,  the  Ewer,  Me. 

ELLIS  RIYER. 

IN  hidden  caverns,  within  the  mountains, 
Cold,  crystal  fountains,  so  clear  and  bright, 
Well  upward,  sparkling,  and  downward,  foaming 
Rush  onward,  roaming,  to  find  a  light. 

Off  on  the  hillside  a  brook  is  dashing ; 

In  splendor  flashing  its  waters  run. 
Out  from  the  woodland,  out  from  the  bushes, 

It  gayly  rushes  to  meet  the  sun. 

Down  in  the  valley,  two  streamlets,  meeting 

In  quiet  greeting,  together  flow; 
By  pools  and  eddies,  where  trout  are  rising, 

With  snares  enticing  the  anglers  go. 

Here  in  thy  intervale,  sweet  river  Ellis, 
In  brimming  chalice,  emerald  green, 

Flowing  past  farmhouse,  elms,  corn  and  clover, 
AH  through  Andover  gleams  thy  bright  sheen. 


EN  FIELD.  197 

Sweet  river  Ellis,  thy  calm  way  keeping, 

In  meadows  sleeping,  I  will  not  sing 
Of  swollen  torrents.,  in  fury  raging, 

Destruction  waging,  in  stormy  Spring. 
*  *  * 

Bright  river  Ellis,  flowing  through  meadows, 

I  love  thy  shadows  and  golden  sands, 
Where  light  through  tremulous  foliage  shimmers, 

Dances  and  glimmers  in  waving  bands. 

Pure  river  Ellis,  through  meadows  winding, 
Haymakers  finding  ere  dews  are  gone; 

Where  blades  are  whetted,  with  music  ringing, 
And  scythes  are  swinging  at  early  dawn. 

Sweet  river  Ellis,  through  meadows  gliding, 

By  thee  abiding  I  fain  would  stray. 
The  peace  of  Nature  my  heart  divining, 

All  care  resigning  this  happy  day  ! 


Anonymous. 


Enfield,   Conn. 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  DRUM. 
APRIL,  1775. 

N  Pilgrim  land,  one  Sabbath-day, 
The  winter  lay  like  sheep  about 
The  ragged  pastures  mullein  gray ; 
The  April  sun  shone  in  and  out, 


I 


198  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

The  showers  swept. by  in  fitful  flocks, 
And  eaves  ticked  fast  like  mantel  clocks; 

And  now  and  then  a  wealthy  cloud 
Would  wear  a  ribbon  broad  and  bright, 

And  now  and  then  a  winged  crowd 
Of  shivering  azure  flash  in  sight. 

So  rainbows  bend,  and  bluebirds  fly, 

And  violets  show  their  bits  of  sky. 

To  Enfield  church  throng  all  the  town, 
In  quilted  hood  and  bombazine, 

In  beaver  hat  with  flaring  crown, 
And  quaint  vandyke  and  victorine ; 

And  buttoned  boys  in  roundabout 

From  calyx  collars  blossom  out; 

Bandannas  wave  their  feeble  fire, 
And  foot-stoves  tinkle  tip  the  aisle ; 

A  gray-haired  elder  leads  the  choir, 
And  girls  in  linsey-woolsey  smile. 

So  back  to  life  the  beings  glide 

Whose  very  graves  had  ebbed  and  died. 

One  hundred  years  have  waned,  and  yet 
We  call  the  roll,  and  not  in  vain, 

For  one  whose  flintlock  musket  set 
The  echoes  wild  round  Fort  Duquesne, 

And  smelled  the  battle's  powder  smoke 

Ere  Revolution's  thunders  woke. 

Lo,  Thomas  Abbe  answers,  "  Here  !  " 
Within  the  dull  long-metre  place. 


ENFIELD.  199 

That  day,  upon  the  parson's  ear, 

And  trampling  down  his  words  of  grace, 
A  horseman's  gallop  rudely  beat 
Along  the  splashed  and  empty  street. 

The  rider  drew  his  dripping  rein, 
And  then  a  letter,  wasp-nest  gray, 

That  ran :    "  The  Concord  minute-men 
And  red-coats  had  a  fight  to-day ! 

To  Captain  Abbe  this  with  speed." 

Twelve  little  words  to  tell  the  deed. 

The  captain  read,  struck  out  for  home 
The  old  quickstep  of  battle  born, 

Slung  on  once  more  a  battered  drum 
That  bore  a  painted  unicorn, 

Then  right-about,  as  whirls  a  torch, 

He  stood  before  the  sacred  porch. 

And  then  a  murmuring  of  bees 

Broke  in  upon  the  house  of  prayer; 

And  then  a  wind-song  swept  the  trees, 
And  then  a  snarl  from  wolfish  lair ; 

And  then  a  charge  of  grenadiers, 

And  then  a  flight  of  drum-beat  cheers. 

So  drum  and  doctrine  rudely  blent, 
The  casements  rattled  strange  accord; 

No  mortal  knew  what  either  meant ; 
'Twas  double-drag  and  Holy  Word, 
Thus  saith  the  drum,  and  thus  the  Lord. 

The  captain  raised  so  wild  a  rout 

He  drummed  the  congregation  out. 


200  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  people  gathered  round  amazed ; 

The  soldier  bared  his  head  and  spoke, 
And  every  sentence  burned  and  blazed, 

As  trenchant  as  a  sabre  stroke: 
"  'T  is  time  to  pick  the  flint  to-day, 
To  sling  the  knapsack,  and  away ! 

"The  green  of  Lexington  is  red 
With  British  red-coats,  brothers'  blood ! 

In  rightful  cause  the  earliest  dead 
Are  always  best  beloved  of  God. 

Mark  time  !     Now  let  the  march  begin ! 

All  bound  for  Boston  fall  right  in ! " 

Then  rub-a-dub  the  drum  jarred  on, 
The  throbbing  roll  of  battle  beat; 

"  Pall  in,  my  men  ! "  and  one  by  one 
They  rhymed  the  tune  with  heart  and  feet. 

And  so  they  made  a  Sabbath  march 

To  glory  'neath  the  elm-tree  arch. 

The  Continental  line  unwound 

Along  the  churchyard's  breathless  sod,     . 
And  holier  grew  the  hallowed  ground 

Where  Virtue  slept  and  Valor  trod. 
Two  hundred  strong  that  April  day 
They  rallied  out  and  marched  away. 

Brigaded  there  at  Bunker  Hill, 

Their  names  are  writ  on  Glory's  page. 

The  brave  old  captain's  Sunday  drill 
Has  drummed  its  way  across  the  age. 

Benjamin  Franklin  Taylor. 


GLOUCESTER.  201 

Gloucester,  Mass. 

THE  WfiECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 
That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 
Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  ! " 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 
A  gale  from  the  northeast, 


202  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength;* 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither !  come  hither !  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so ; 
Tor  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  0  father !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
er  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !  " 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  0  father !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

0  say,  what  may  it  be  ? " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea ! " 

"  0  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

0  say,  what  may  it  be  ? " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 


GLOUCESTER.  203 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hand,  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 


204  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  seaweed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  PHANTOM  BOAT. 

THE  tide  comes  in,  and  the  tide  goes  out, 
And  the  rollers  break  on  the  harbor  bar, 
And  up  from  the  distance  comes  a  sail, 
Gleaming  white,  'neath  the  morning  star. 

Fishing  tackle  and  boats  on  deck, 
Running  rigging,  belayed  and  trim; 

Raking  spars,  —  't  is  no  battered  wreck 
Sailing  out  in  the  distance  dim. 

It  draws  not  near,  though  the  wind  is  fair, 
The  sheets  are  free,  but  it  comes  not  nigh, 


GLOUCESTER.  205 

But  hangs,  a  point  on  the  morning  air, 
A  pictured  sail,  'twixt  the  sea  and  sky. 

"Fisherman,  tell  me  why  yonder  boat 
Sails,  and  no  nearer  comes  to  shore; 

Nor  in  the  distance  grows  remote, 
Nor  a  ripple  her  bow  breaks  o'er." 

"Stranger,  I  reckon  you  aren't  here  long: 

Many  a  year  her  pennant  flew. 
Old  is  the  story;  a  worn-out  song, 

But  her  deck  is  trod  by  no  mortal  crew. 

"Look  a  moment,  and  see  the  flame 
Gleaming  white  over  mast  and  spar; 

Here,  take  my  glass ;  you  can  read  the  name 
Under  her  starn ;  't  is  the  Alice  Marr. 

"Alice  Marr  was  a  fair  young  girl, 

Long  ago  in  Glos'ter  town; 
Rippling  tresses  and  sunny  curl, 

Rare  red  lips,  and  a  cheek  of  brown. 

"That  was  Alice,  the  fisher's  pride; 

Lovers  sought  her  from  near  and  far; 
She  was  John  Ackman's  promised  bride : 

He  named  his  vessel  the  Alice  Marr. 

"Thar's  nothing  sartin,  stranger,  in  life; 

We  're  gone  to-morrow,  though  here  to-day : 
Another  v'yage  she  would  be  his  wife, 

At  least  so  I  've  hearn  the  gossips  say. 


206  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"  Pork,  potatoes,  and  hard-tack  stowed, 

Water  in  barrels,  and  water  in  tanks, 
Nicely  fixed  for  a  three  months'  cruise, 

He  sailed  away  for  the  fishing-banks. 

*  *  * 

"Months  rolled  on,  and  never  a  word; 

Six  months,  twelve  months  :  on  the  day 
That  finished  the  year  was  a  rumor  heard 

Of  the  Alice  Marr  in  the  outer  bay. 

"Boats  put  out,  but  they  drew  not  near, 
Slowly,  silently,  on  she  steered  : 

'  Skipper  Ackman  !  ho  !  what  cheer  ! ' 
She  had  vanished,  had  disappeared. 

"Ever,  as  rolls  the  year  around 

Bringing  again  her  sailing  day, 
Rises  her  hull  from  the  depths  profound, 

And  slowly  cruises  the  outer  bay. 

"Not  a  word  of  her  master's  fate; 

Only  a  glimmer  of  sail  and  spar; 
Not  a  word  of  her  crew  or  mate, — 

This  is  the  ghost  of  the  Alice  Marr. 

"Still  she  watched  down  the  peaceful  bay, 
Still  her  eye  scanned  each  gathering  cloud: 

Years  receded,  and,  worn  and  gray, 

Her  wedding  dress  was  her  funeral  shroud." 
U.  Norman  Gunnison. 


GLOUCESTER.  207 


MIDSUMMER  IN  THE  CITY. 

OYE  keen  breezes  from  the  salt  Atlantic, 
Which    to   the    beach,   where    memory   loves    to 

wander, 

On  your  strong  pinions  waft  reviving  coolness, 
Bend  your  course  hither ! 

Tor  in  the  surf  ye  scattered  to  the  sunshine 
Did  we  not  sport  together  in  my  boyhood, 
Screaming  for  joy  amid  the  flashing  breakers, 
0  rude  companions  ? 

Then  to  the  meadows  beautiful  and  fragrant, 
Where  the  coy  Spring  beholds  her  earliest  verdure 
Brighten  with  smiles  that  rugged  seaside  hamlet, 
How  would  we  hasten ! 

There  under  elm-trees  affluent  in  foliage, 
High  o'er  whose  summit  hovered  the  sea-eagle, 
Through  the  hot,  glaring  noontide  have  we  rested, 
After  our  gambols. 

Vainly  the  sailor  called  you  from  your  slumber : 
Like  a  glazed  pavement  shone  the  level  ocean; 
While,  with  their  snow-white  canvas  idly  drooping, 
Stood  the  tall  vessels. 

And  when  at  length  exulting  ye  awakened, 
Rushed  to  the  beach,  and  ploughed  the  liquid  acres, 
How  have  I  chased  you  through  the  shivered  billows, 
In  my  frail  shallop ! 


208  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Playmates,  old  playmates,  hear  my  invocation  ! 
In  the  close  town  I  waste  this  golden  summer, 
Where  piercing  cries  and  sounds  of  wheels  in  motion 
Ceaselessly  mingle. 

When  shall  I  feel  your  breath  upon  my  forehead? 
When  shall  I  hear  you  in  the  elm-trees'  branches  ? 
When  shall  we  wrestle  in  the  briny  surges, 
Friends  of  my  boyhood? 

Epes  Sargent. 

A  WAIF. 

THE  autumn  day 
Rich  in  its  regal  beauty  lay 
Over  headland  and  beach  and  sea, 
And  the  voice  of  the  waves  sang  dreamily 
A  sweet,  low  tale  to  the  listening  ear; 
A  tale,  as  if  never  a  breath  of  fear 
Or  shadow  of  sorrow  could  cloud  the  blue, 
Or  darken  the  sunlight  glinting  through 
The  mellow  air.     It  was  fair,  I  ween, 
That  autumn  sunlight,  that  harbor  scene, 
As  over  the  waves,  that  golden  day, 
A  trim  bark  sailed  on  its  voyage  away. 

Gloucester  town 

Lies  where  the  winter  sunbeams  down 

On  its  roofs  and  spires  are  shining  bright, 

On  the  tall  masts  showing  slim  and  bare, 

On  Stage  Head  Battery,  and  where 

Gleams  the  tower  of  Ten  Pound  Island  light; 


GLOUCESTER.  209 

But  never  again  to  Gloucester  town, 

Around  the  Point  and  up  to  the  town, 

Will  the  good  bark  glide,  that  sailed  away 

In  the  dreamy  hush  of  that  autumn  day. 

There  are  those  who  '11  wait  and  watch  and  weep, 

And  gaze  afar  o'er  the  heaving  deep, 

And  wish  for  the  loved  to  come  once  more,  — 

For  the  bark  to  sail  for  Cape  Ann's  shore. 

Ah  !  none  may  know  in  the  sea-girt  town 

How  or  when  that  stanch  bark  went  down; 

For  those  who  within  her  sailed  the  main 

Never  will  come  to  port  again. 

Father  of  goodness  and  mercy,  be 

With  those  who  mourn  for  the  lost  at  sea. 

H.  C.  L.  EaskelL 

IN  THE  SEA. 

THE  salt  wind  blows  upon  my  cheek 
As  it  blew  a  year  ago, 
When  twenty  boats  were  crushed  among 

The  rocks  of  Norman's  Woe. 

'T  was  dark  then ;  't  is  light  now, 

And  the  sails  are  leaning  low. 

In  dreams  I  pull  the  sea-weed  o'er, 

And  find  a  face  not  his, 
And  hope  another  tide  will  be 

More  pitying  than  this. 
The  wind  turns;  the  tide  turns: 

They  take  what  hope  there  is. 


210  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

My  life  goes  on  as  thine  would  go 

With  all  its  sweetness  spilled : 
My  God !  why  should  one  heart  of  two 

Beat  on,  when  one  is  stilled  ? 
Through  heart-wreck  or  home-wreck 

Thy  happy  sparrows  build. 

Though  boats  go  down,  men  build  anew, 

Whatever  winds  may  blow; 
If  blight  be  in  the  wheat  one  year, 

We  trust  again,  and  sow, 
Though  grief  comes,  and  changes 

The  sunshine  into  snow. 

Some  have  their  dead,  where,  sweet  and  soon, 

The  summers  bloom  and  go. 
The  sea  withholds  my  dead :  I  walk 

The  bar,  when  tides  are  low, 
And  wonder  the  grave-grass 

Can  have  the  heart  to  grow. 

Jlow  on,  0  uneonsenting  sea ! 

And  keep  my  dead  below : 
Though  night,  0  utter  night!  my  soul, 

Delude  thee  long,  I  know, 
Or  Life  comes,  or  Death  comes, 

God  leads  the  eternal  flow. 

Hiram  Rick. 


GREAT   BAERINGTON.  211 

Great  Harrington,  Mass. 

GKEEN  EIYER. 

TTTHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 

'  f    I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  Me  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green, 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink ; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters,  —  its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 
The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone. 
Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum ; 
The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 


212  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Yet,  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  slimmest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream !  by  the  village  side ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely,  save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides ;  • 
Or  the  simpler  comes,  with  basket  and  book, 
Tor  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still,  save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  or  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 

That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 
And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 
While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks,  in  a  trance  of  song. 


GREAT    BARRINGTON.  213 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 
And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 
And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 
Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud,  — 
I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 
To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 
And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 
For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 
An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 
That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 

William  Cullen  Bryant, 

MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 

THOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou  stand' st, 
The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.     Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets  strive 
To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  once, 
Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 


214  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 

And  eagle's  shriek.     There  is  a  precipice 

That  seems  a  fragment -of  some  mighty  wall, 

Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 

To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 

When  the  flood  drowned  them.     To  the  north,  a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 

Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 

With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 

And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 

Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, — 

Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 

Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 

With  moss,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and  there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 

Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 

Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray  wall, 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 

Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 

Is  lovely  round;  a  beautiful  river  there 

Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil1  for  ages.     On  each  side 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills ;  beyond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 

The  mountain  columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 
*  *  * 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


GREEN    MOUNTAINS. HAMPTON.  215 

Green  Mountains,    Vt. 

THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 

YE  mountains,  that  far  off  lift  up  your  heads, 
Seen  dimly  through  their  canopies  of  blue, 
The  shade  of  my  unrestful  spirit  sheds 
Distance-created  beauty  over  you ; 
I  am  not  well  content  with  tin's  far  view; 
How  may  I  know  what  foot  of  loved  one  treads 
Your  rocks  moss-grown  and  sun-dried  torrent  beds? 
We  should  love  all  things  better,  if  we  knew 
What  claims  the  meanest  have  upon  our  hearts; 
Perchance  even  now  some  eye,  that  would  be  bright 
To  meet  my  own,  looks  on  your  mist-robed  forms ; 
Perchance  your  grandeur  a  deep  joy  imparts 
To  souls  that  have  encircled  mine  with  light,  — 
0  brother-heart,  with  thee  my  spirit  warms  ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


Hampton,  N.  H. 

HAMPTON  BEACH. 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 
Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy  gray. 


216  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles  around. 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 

Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossoming  grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust-spray. 

Ha !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life,  —  the  healing  of  the  seas ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with  cool  spray 
wet. 

Good-by  to  pain  and  care !     I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath  —  I  seem 
Like  all  I  see  — 


HAMPTON.  217 

Waves  in  the  sun —  the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam  — 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  south-wind  free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vastness  grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 
No  new  revealing; 

Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 

Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream, 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new  life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul's  new 
morning. 

I  sit  alone ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 

Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy  cleft  and 
cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 


218  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shuts 
down ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind, 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer  !  —  wave  and  shore 

In  shadow  lie ; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sunset  sky. 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell ! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the  Sea. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  WRECK  OF  EIYERMOUTH. 

"OIVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 
JA;    By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 
When  the  ebb  of  the  sea  has  left  them  free, 

To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green  moss : 
Tor  there  the  river  comes  winding  down 
From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands  brown, 


HAMPTON.  219 

And  waves  on  the  onter  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  "Welcome  home!" 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 

East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 
And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er; 
And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 
'Twixt  white  sea-waves  and  sand-hills  brown, 
The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls  wheel 
Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 

Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the  winding  ways 

Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore, 
Eull  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Yeering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light, 
With  the  Boar  to  left  and  the  Rocks  to  right. 

In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers  laid 

Their  scythes  to  the  swaths  of  salted  grass, 
"  Ah,  well-a-day  !  our  hay  must  be  made  ! " 

A  young  man  sighed,  who  saw  them  pass. 
Loud  laughed  his  fellows  to  see  him  stand 
Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless  hand, 
Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  beckoning  long. 

"  Fie  on  the  witch ! "  cried  a  merry  girl, 
As  they  rounded  the  point  where  Goody  Cole 


220  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 
A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 
"  Oho  !  "  she  muttered,  "  ye  're  brave  to-day  ! 
But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and  say, 
f  The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at  home ; 
Tor  it 's  one  to  go,  but  another  to  come ! ' ' 

"She's  cursed,"  said  the  skipper;  "speak  her  fair 

I'm  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray  hair, 

And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like  a  snake." 
But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout, 
From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sailed  out, 
Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on  Star  seemed  nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of  Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the  lazy  tide, 
Drawing  up  haddock  and  mottled  cod; 
They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked  beside, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence  shod. 
But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist  grew, 
Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and  through; 
And  muffled  growls,  like  the  growl  of  a  beast, 
Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 

Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the  darkening  sea 
Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun; 

But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheerily, 
"Yet  there  is  time  for  our  homeward  run." 

Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward  wore; 

And  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods  ashore 


HAMPTON.  221 

Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past, 

The  wrath  of  the  storm  came  down  at  last ! 

The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail: 

"  God  be  our  help  ! "  he  'only  cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the  stroke  of  a  flail, 

Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 
The  Shoalsmeii  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown, 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's  glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 

Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her  door: 

The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned  and  gone, 
Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 

Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip  of  pain, 
The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain : 
"They  are  lost,"  she  muttered,  "boat  and  crew! 
Lord,  forgive  me !   my  words  were  true ! " 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall; 

The  low  sun  smote  through  cloudy  rack; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and  all 

The  trend  of  the  coast  lay  hard  and  black. 
But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach; 
The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning  never 
Sailed  back  again  into  Hampton  River. 

0  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 
Look  from  the  meadows  green  and  low: 


222  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of  death, 
The  waves  are  singing  a  song  of  woe ! 
By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be: 
Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 
Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall ! 

0  Rivermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 
Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking  day  ! 
Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 

Prom  sand  and  seaweed  where  they  lay. 
The  mad  old  witch-wife  wailed  and  wept, 
And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward  crept: 
"  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water-snake ! 
Leave  your  dead  for  the  hearts  that  break!" 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 

In  Hampton  town  and  its  log-built  church, 
Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 

And  the  mourners  stood  in  aisle  and  porch. 
In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  were  dim, 
The  voices  faltered  that  raised  the  hymn 
And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in  turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not  pray, 
Because  of  his  sin  at  fourscore  years  : 

He  stood  apart,  with  the  iron-gray 

Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide  his  tears. 

And  a  wretched  woman,  holding  her  breath 

In  the  awful  presence  of  sin  and  death, 


HAMPTON.  223 

Cowered  and  shrank,  while  her  neighbors  thronged 
To  look  on  the  dead  her  shame  had  wronged. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid, 

Old  Goody  Cole  looked  drearily  round, 
As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid, 

The  mourners  walked  to  the  burying-ground. 
She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped  hands  fall : 
"  Lord,  forgive  us  !  we  're  sinners  all !  " 
And  the  voice  of  the  old  man  answered  her : 
"  Amen  !  "  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 
In  the  calm  of  a  closing  summer  day, 

And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton  shore 
In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 

The  Rivermouth  Rocks  their  story  told; 

And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 

Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 

Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 

And  the  sunset  paled,  and  warmed  once  more 

With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow; 
In  the  east  was  moonrise,  with  boats  off-shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance  drifting  slow. 
The  beacon  glimmered  from  Portsmouth  bar, 
The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red  star; 
And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 
Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and  day! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


224  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 


THE  CHANGELING. 

FR  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton 
They  needed  not  to  search, 
Who  saw  young  Anna  Eavor 
Come  walking  into  church, — 

Or  bringing  from  the  meadows, 

At  set  of  harvest-day, 
The  frolic  of  the  blackbirds, 

The  sweetness  of  the  hay. 

Now  the  weariest  of  all  mothers, 
The  saddest  two-years  bride, 

She  scowls  in  the  face  of  her  husband, 
And  spurns  her  child  aside. 

"Rake  out  the  red  coals,  goodman, — 
Tor  there  the  child  shall  lie, 

Till  the  black  witch  comes  to  fetch  her, 
And  both  up  chimney  fly. 

"It's  never  my  own  little  daughter, 
It's  never  my  own,"  she  said; 

"The  witches  have  stolen  my  Anna, 
And  left  me  an  imp  instead. 


"She'll  come  when  she  hears  it  crying, 
In  the  shape  of  an  owl  or  bat, 

And  she'll  bring  us  our  darling  Anna 
In  place  of  her  screeching  brat." 


HAMPTON.  225 

Then  the  goodman,  Ezra  Dalton, 

Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head: 
"Thy  sorrow  is  great,  0  woman! 

I  sorrow  with  thee,"  he  said. 

"The  paths  to  trouble  are  many, 

And  never  but  one  sure  way 
Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it: 

My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray*" 

Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 
"Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind; 

Let  her  sight  come  back,  and  clothe  her 
Once  more  in  her  right  mind." 


Then  into  the  face  of  its  mother 
The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled; 

And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted. 
And  she  knew  her  little  child. 

A  beam  of  the  slant  west  sunshine 
Made  the  wan  face  almost  fair, 

Lit  the  blue  eyes'  patient  wonder, 
And  the  rings  of  pale  gold  hair. 

She  kissed  it  on  lip  and  forehead, 
She  kissed  it  on  cheek  and  chin, 

And  she  bared  her  snow-white  bosom 
To  the  lips  so  pale  and  thin. 

Oh,  fair  on  her  bridal  morning 
Was  the  maid  who  blushed  and  smiled, 


226  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

But  fairer  to  Ezra  Dalton 

Looked  the  mother  of  his  child. 

With  more  than  a  lover's  fondness 
He  stooped  to  her  worn  young  face, 

And  the  nursing1  child  and  the  mother 
He  folded  in  one  embrace. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  "  he  murmured. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  "  she  said ; 
"For  I  see,  who  once  was  blinded, — 

I  live,  who  once  was  dead. 

"Now  mount  and  ride,  my  goodman, 
As  thou  lovest  thy  own  soul! 

Woe  's  me,  if  my  wicked  fancies 
Be  the  death  of  Goody  Cole ! " 

His  horse  he  saddled  and  bridled, 
And  into  the  night  rode  he,  — 

Now  through  the  great  black  woodland 
Now  by  the  white-beached  sea. 

He  rode  through  the  silent  clearings, 
•He  came  to  the  ferry  wide, 

And  thrice  he  called  to  the  boatman 
Asleep  on  the  other  side. 

He  set  his  horse  to  the  river, 
He  swam  to  Newbury  town, 

And  he  called  up  Justice  Sewall 
In  his  nightcap  and  his  gown. 


HARPSWELL.  227 

And  the  grave  and  worshipful  justice 

(Upon  whose  soul  be  peace !) 
Set  his  name  to  the  jailer's  warrant 

For  Goodwife  Cole's  release. 

Then  through  the  night  the  hoof-beats 

Went  sounding  like  a  flail; 
And  Goody  Cole  at  cockcrow 

Came  forth  from  Ipswich  jail. 

John,  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Harpswell,  He. 

THE  DEAD  SHIP  OF  HARPSWELL. 

WHAT  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 
The  sundown's  golden  trail  ? 
The  white  flash  of  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail? 
Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and  Point, 

And  sea-worn  elders  pray,  — 
The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a  ship 
Is  sailing  up  the  bay! 

From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 
The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

O  hundred-harbored  Maine ! 
But  many  a  keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a  sail  putstaud, 


228  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

When,  tall  and  white,  the  Dead  Ship  looms 
Against  the  dusk  of  land. 

She  rounds  the  headland's  bristling  pines ; 

She  threads  the  isle-set  bay; 
No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on, 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay. 
Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 

Who  tell  her  date  and  name, 
Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 

Who  hewed  her  oaken  frame. 

What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest, 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine  ? 
What  makes  thee  in  the  haunts  of  home 

A  wonder  and  a  sign? 
No  foot  is  on  thy  silent  deck, 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand ; 
No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wind 

That  smites  thee  from  the  land! 

For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe'er  the  breeze  may  be ; 
Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 

She  drifts  again  to  sea. 
No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side ; 
Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 

Against  the  wind  and  tide. 

In  vain  o'er  Harpswell  Neck  the  star 
Of  evening  guides  her  io  ; 


HARPSWELL.  229 

In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 

Within  thy  tower,  Seguin ! 
In  vain  the  harbor-boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call; 
No  hand  shall  reef  her  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 

Shake,  brown  old  wives,  with  dreary  joy, 

Your  gray-head  hints  of  ill; 
And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low, 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 
Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 

Shall  drape  its  door  with  woe ; 
And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails, 

The  burial  boat  shall  row  ! 

From  Wolf  Neck  and  from  Flying  Point, 

From  island  and  from  main, 
From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek, 

Shall  glide  the  funeral  train. 
The  dead-boat  with  the  bearers  four, 

The  mourners  at  her  stem, — 
And  one  shall  go  the  silent  way 

Who  shall  no  more  return! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep, 

Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine, 
And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 

Await  the  ghostly  sign. 
They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 

By  pity's  tender  breath, 
Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 

Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


230  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Hartford,  Conn. 

ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT. 

IN  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 
With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people  sent 
Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 
And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where  the  Sound 
Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 
Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 
And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil  deaths, 
Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the  State 
Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

'Twas  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old  year 
Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there  fell 
Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the  Spring, 
Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of  noon, 
A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 
In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell, — 
The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.     The  low-hung  sky 
Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where  its  rim 
Was  fringed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that  which  climbs 
The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  below. 
Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barnyard  fowls 
Roosted;   the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 
Lowed,  and  looked  homeward;  bats  on  leathern  wings 
Flitted  abroad ;   the  sounds  of  labor  died ; 
Men  prayed,  and  women  wept;  all  ears  grew  sharp 


HARTFORD.  231 

To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet  shatter 
The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of  Christ 
Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  he  looked 
A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim  as  ghosts, 
Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 
"It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day!     Let  us  adjourn," 
Some  said;   and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport. 
He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush.     "This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world  awaits; 
But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 
To  occupy  till  he  come.     So  at  the  post 
Where  he  hath  set  me  in  his  providence, 
I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  him  face  to  face,  — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  calls; 
And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would  say, 
Let  God  do  his  work,  we  will  see  to  ours. 
Bring  in  the  candles."     And  they  brought  them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker  read, 
Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands, 
An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 
The  shad  and  ale  wive  fisheries.     Whereupon 
Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 


232  POEMS   OP   PLACES. 

Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of  speech 

Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 

The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man: 

His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all  the  while, 

Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 

To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 

Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud. 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this  day, 
Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Haverhill  (Pentucket),  Mass. 

PENTUCKET 
1708. 

HOW  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar ! 


HAVERHILL    (PENTUCKET1).  233 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough, — 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow, — 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay, — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate  ! 

Hours  passed  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimac  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 


234  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound,  — 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood?  — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb? 
No,  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glowed, 
Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear,  — 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock,  — 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  —  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men, — 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain,  — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air, — 


HAVERHILL   (PENTUCKET).  235 

No  shout  was  heard, — nor  gunshot  there: 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare,  — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard,  — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GKOUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose, 
Our  hills  are  maple-crowned; 
But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 
The  village  burying -ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 
To  Death  they  set  apart; 


236  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 
And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 

Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 
A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 

With  grass  and  wandering  vinos. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shova 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head; 

Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows. 
Tern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighborly  plaia 
Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 

The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 
The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  rsply; 
Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 

Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 
The  school-girl  learns  the  place  to  shu», 

With  glances  backward  cast. 

Tor  thus  our  fathers  testified  — 
That  he  might  read  who  ran  — 

The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 
The  nothingness  of  man. 


HAVERHILL    (PENTUCKET).  23? 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with  flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would  blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 

In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 
And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 

The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And  glorified  and  sanctified 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 

With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 
Around  the  seasons  ran, 


238  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  evermore  the  love  of  God 
Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 
The  truths  we  know,  are  one ; 

The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we  glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  and  small; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When  he  is  pledged  for  all? 

0  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this,  — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 


HAVERHILL    (PENTUCKET).  239 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet  stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 

John  Greenleq/  Whittier. 


THE  SYCAMORES. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 
Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 

And  another  half-way  told, 
Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 

Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 


240  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light,  — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 

With  the  solemn  march  of  Mear. 


Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'Tis  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ; 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman ! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant' s  sycamores  ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country 
Through  the  north-land  riding  came, 

And  the  roofs  were  starred  with  banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim, — 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 
Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 


HAVERHILL   (PENTUCKET).  24 

Waved  Ms  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 
And  shot  off  his  old  king's  arm,  — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 

Down  the  thronged  and  shouting  street; 

Village  girls  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 
Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew: 

On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 
Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town, — 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine^ 

To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 
Winding  down  from  wooded  headlands, 

Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweeping 
Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 

"I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Tnen  the  bugles  of  his  escort 

Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade ; 
And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 

Vanished  down  the  depths  of  shade. 


24)2  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets ; 

3?rom  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Highgate,   Vf. 

LITTLE  JERRY,  THE  MILLER. 

TYENEATH  the  hill  you  may  see  the  mill 
•D     Of  wasting  wood  and  crumbling  stone; 
The  wheel  is  dripping  and  clattering  still, 
But  Jerry,  the  miller,  is  dead  and  gone. 

Year  after  year,  early  and  late, 
Alike  in  summer  and  winter  weather, 

He  pecked  the  stones  and  calked  the  gate, 
And  mill  and  miller  grew  old  together. 

"Little  Jerry  !  " —  't  was  all  the  same,  — 
They  loved  him  well  who  called  him  so; 

And  whether  he'd  ever  another  name, 
Nobody  ever  seemed  to  know. 


HIGHGATE.  243 

'T  was,  "  Little  Jerry,  come  grind  my  rye " ; 

And,  "  Little  Jerry,  come  grind  my  wheat " ; 
And  "Little  Jerry"  was  still  the  cry, 

From  matron  bold  and  maiden  sweet. 

'T  was  "  Little  Jerry  "  on  every  tongue, 

And  so  the  simple  truth  was  told ; 
For  Jerry  was  little  when  he  was  young, 

And  Jerry  was  little  when  he  was  old. 

But  what  in  size  he  chanced  to  lack, 
That  Jerry  made  up  in  being  strong; 

I  've  seen  a  sack  upon  his  back 
As  thick  as  the  miller,  and  quite  as  long. 

Always  busy,  and  always  merry, 

Always  doing  his  very  best, 
A  notable  wag  was  Little  Jerry, 

Who  uttered  well  his  standing  jest. 

How  Jerry  lived  is  known  to  fame, 

But  how  he  died  there 's  none  may  know ; 

One  autumn  day  the  rumor  came, 
"The  brook  and  Jerry  are  very  low." 

And  then  't  was  whispered,  mournfully, 
The  leech  had  come,  and  he  was  dead; 

And  all  the  neighbors  nocked  to  see: 
"  Poor  little  Jerry !  "  was  all  they  said. 

They  laid  him  in  his  earthy  bed, — 
His  miller's  coat  his  only  shroud; 


244  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Dust  to  dust,"  the  parson  said, 
And  all  the  people  wept  aloud. 

For  he  had  slimmed  the  deadly  sin, 

And  not  a  grain  of  over-toll 
Had  ever  dropped  into  his  bin, 

To  weigh  upon  his  parting  soul. 

Beneath  the  hill  there  stands  the  mill, 
Of  wasting  wood  and  crumbling  stone ; 

The  wheel  is  dripping  and  clattering  still, 
But  Jerry,  the  miller,  is  dead  and  gone. 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


Hingham,  Mass. 

PAIN  IN  AUTUMN. 

A  DROWSY  pain,  a  dull,  dead  pain, 
Preys  on  my  heart,  and  clouds  my  brain; 
And  shadows  brood  above  my  dreams, 
Like  spectral  mists  o'er  haunted  streams. 

There  is  no  fire  within  the  grate ; 
The  room  is  cold  and  desolate, 
And  dampness  on  the  window-panes 
Eoretells  the  equinoctial  rains. 
The  stony  road  runs  past  the  door, 
Dry  and  dusty  evermore; 
Up  and  down  the  people  go, 


HINGHAM.  245 

Shadowy  figures,  sad  and  slow: 
And  the  strange  houses  lie  below. 

Across  the  road  the  dark  elms  wait, 
Ranged  in  a  row  before  the  gate, 
Giving  their  voices  to  the  wind, 
And  their  sorrows  to  my  mind. 

Behind  the  house  the  river  flows, 

Half  unrest  and  half  repose ; 

Ships  lie  below  with  mildewed  sails, 

Tattered  in  forgotten  gales; 

Along  each  hulk  a  whitish  line, 

The  dasliing  of  the  ancient  brine : 

Beyond,  the  spaces  of  the  sea, 

Which  old  Ocean's  portals  be: 

The  laud  runs  out  its  horns  of  sand, 

And  the  sea  comes  in  to  meet  the  land. 

Sky  sinks  to  sea,  sea  swells  to  sky, 

Till  they  meet,  and  mock  the  eye ; 

And  where  they  meet  the  sand  hills  lie; 

No  cattle  in  their  pastures  seen, 

For  the  yellow  grass  was  never  green: 

With  a  calm  and  solemn  stare 

They  look  to  heaven  in  blank  despair; 

And  heaven,  with  pity  dumb  the  while, 

Looks  down  again  with  a  sickly  smile. 

The  sky  is  gray,  half  dark,  half  bright, 
Swimming  in  dim,  uncertain  light, 
Something  between  the  day  and  night. 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  the  winds  blow,  but  soft  and  low, 
Unheard,  unheeded  in  their  woe; 
Like  some  sick  heart,  too  near  o'erthrown 
To  vent  its  grief  by  sigh  or  moan, 
Some  heart  that  breaks,  like  mine,  alone! 

And  here  I  dwell,  condemned  to  see, 
And  be  what  all  these  phantoms  be, 
"Within  this  realm  of  penal  pain, 
Beside  the  melancholy  main  ; 
The  waste  which  lies,  as  legend  saith, 
Between  the  worlds  of  Life  and  Death; 
A  soul  from  Life  to  Death  betrayed, 
A  Shadow  in  the  World  of  Shade  ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


Holyoke,  the  Mountain,  Mass. 

SUNDAY  ON  MOUNT  HOLYOKE. 

I'VE  climbed,  with  slippery,  toiling  feet, 
The  cliff,  beneath  whose  verge, 
Tar  down,  wide-waving  woodlands  beat 
Their  greenly  rippling  surge. 

"With  rustling  skirts  the  zephyr  treads 

The  undulating  trees, 
And  azure  harebells  nod  their  heads, 

Hung  by  the  passing  breeze. 


HOLYOKE,  THE  MOUNTAIN.        247 

Mid  fields  of  variegated  grain 

The  river  lies  asleep, 
While  the  stern  mountains  to  the  plain 

With  softened  outline  sweep. 

And,  hand  in  hand,  around  the  vale, 

Clad  in  blue  autumn-mist, 
They  stand,  that  naught  the  spot  assail 

The  loving  sun  hath  kissed. 

On  the  green  hillside  lowing  kine 

Are  heard,  and  bleating  flocks, 
And,  where  the  farmyard  roofings  shine, 

The  shrilly  crowing  cocks. 

But  naught  of  sight  or  sound  doth  mar 

The  holy  Sabbath-time, 
Where  the  white  belfry  gleams  afar 

Whispers  the  village-chime. 

Like  a  fond  mother's  kiss,  the  scene 

Soothes  the  unrestful  brain; 
Earth's  love,  so  smilingly  serene, 

Wins  the  sick  soul  from  pain. 

Here  are  no  traces  to  record 

Man's  crimes  or  his  distress ; 
The  brooding  spirit  looks  abroad 

In  happy  loneliness. 

How  spiritual  seems  the  place  ! 
The  blue,  unclouded  skies 


248  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Look  down,  as  when  a  thoughtful  face 
To  yearning  dreams  replies. 

'Tis  well  to  kneel  in  pillared  aisle, 
And  swell  prayer's  choral  tone; 

But  holiest  feelings  crave  awhile 
To  find  themselves  alone. 

And  as  the  landscape,  viewed  from  hence, 

Dwindles  in  sight  and  sound, 
While  heaven,  in  still  magnificence, 

Spreads  broader  arms  around; 

So,  from  this  lofty  mountain-goal 

To  which  my  feet  have  trod, 
Life's  objects  lessen, — and  the  soul 

Seemeth  more  near  to  God. 

James  Freeman  Colman. 


Hopkinton,  Mass. 

THE  FRANKLAND  MANSION. 

ONE  hour  we  rumble  on  the  rail, 
One  half-hour  guide  the  rein, 
We  reach  at  last,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
The  village  on  the  plain. 

With  blackening  wall  and  mossy  roof, 
With  stained  and  warping  floor, 


HOPKINTON.  249 

A  stately  mansion  stands  aloof, 
And  bars  its  haughty  door. 

This  lowlier  portal  may  be  tried, 

That  breaks  the  gable  wall; 
And  lo !  with  arches  opening  wide, 

Sir  Harry  Frankland's  hall ! 

'T  was  in  the  second  George's  day 

They  sought  the  forest  shade, 
The  knotted  trunks  they  cleared  away, 

The  massive  beams  they  laid, 

They  piled  the  rock-hewn  chimney  tall, 
They  smoothed  the  terraced  ground, 

They  reared  the  marble -pillared  wall 
That  fenced  the  mansion  round. 

Par  stretched  beyond  the  village  bound 

The  Master's  broad  domain; 
With  page  and  valet,  horse  and  hound, 

He  kept  a  goodly  train. 

And,  all  the  midland  county  through, 
The  ploughman  stopped  to  gaze 

Whene'er  his  chariot  swept  in  view 
Behind  the  shining  bays, 

With  mute  obeisance,  grave  and  slow, 

Repaid  by  nod  polite,  — 
For  such  the  way  with  high  and  low 

Till  after  Concord  fight. 


250  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

I  tell  you,  as  my  tale  began, 
The  Hall  is  standing  still; 

And  yon,  kind  listener,  maid  or  man, 
May  see  it  if  you  will. 

The  box  is  glistening  huge  and  green, 
Like  trees  the  lilacs  grow, 

Three  elms  high-arching  still  are  seen, 
And  one  lies  stretched  below. 

The  hangings,  rough  with  velvet  flowers, 

Flap  on  the  latticed  wall ; 
And  o'er  the  mossy  ridge-pole  towers 

The  rock-hewn  chimney  tall. 

Thus  Agnes  won  her  noble  name, 

Her  lawless  lover's  hand; 
The  lowly  maiden  so  became 

A  lady  in  the  land! 

The  tale  is  done ;  it  little  needs 
To  track  their  after  ways, 

And  string  again  the  golden  beads 
Of  love's  uncounted  days. 

They  leave  the  fair  ancestral  isle 
Tor  bleak  New  England's  shore; 

How  gracious  is  the  courtly  smile 
Of  all  who  frowned  before ! 

Again  through  Lisbon's  orange  bowers 
They  watch  the  river's  gleam, 


HOPKINTON.  251 

And  shudder  as  her  shadowy  towers 
Shake  in  the  trembling  stream. 

Fate  parts  at  length  the  fondest  pair; 

His  cheek,  alas !  grows  pale ; 
The  breast  that  trampling  death  could  spare 

His  noiseless  shafts  assail. 

He  longs  to  change  the  heaven  of  blue 

For  England's  clouded  sky, — 
To  breathe  the  air  his  boyhood  knew; 

He  seeks  them  but  to  die. 

The  doors  on  mighty  hinges  clash 

With  massive  bolt  and  bar, 
The  heavy  English-moulded  sash 

Scarce  can  the  night-winds  jar. 


A  graded  terrace  yet  remains; 

If  on  its  turf  you  stand 
And  look  along  the  wooded  plains 

That  stretch  on  either  hand, 

The  broken  forest  walls  define 

A  dim,  receding  view, 
Where,  on  the  far  horizon's  line, 

He  cut  his  vista  through. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


252  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Housatonic,  the  Ewer. 

BENNETT'S  BKIDGE. 

THOU  beautiful,  romantic  dell ! 
Thy  banks  of  hemlock  highlands  swell, 
Like  huge  sea  billows,  o'er  the  isles 
Round  which  the  branching  river  smiles. 
Look  up  !  how  sombre  and  how  vast 
The  shadows  those  dark  mountains  cast, 
Making  noon  twilight ;  or  look  down 
The  giddy  depths,  so  steep  and  brown, 
Where  claret  waters  foam  and  play 
A  tinkling  tune,  then  dance  away. 

Oft,  with  my  oak-leaf  basket  green, 
On  summer  holidays  serene, 
Along  your  hillsides  have  I  strayed, 
And  on  the  ground,  all  scarlet  made, 
Picked  in  full  stems,  as  low  I  kneeled, 
Strawberries,  rubies  of  the  field, 
Coming  late  home ;  or  in  the  flood 
Cooled  the  warm  current  of  my  blood, 
While  swam  the  house-dog  after  me, 
With  long  red  tongue  lapt  out  in  glee. 

'T  is  glorious,  here,  at  breaking  day, 
To  watch  the  orient  clouds  of  gray 
Blush  crimson,  as  the  yellow  sun 
Walks  up  to  take  his  purple  throne, 


HOUSATONIC,    THE    RIVER.  253 

And  melts  to  snowy  mists  the  dew 
That  kissed,  all  night,  each  blossom's  hue, 
Till,  like  a  tumbling  ocean  spread, 
They  hide  low  vale  and  tall  cliff's  head, 
And  many  a  tree's  fantastic  form 
Looks  like  some  tossed  ship  in  a  storm. 

How  still  the  scene !  yet  here  war's  hum 
Once  echoed  wildly  from  the  drum, 
When  waved  the  lily  flower's  gay  bloom 
O'er  glittering  troops  with  sword  and  plume, 
Who,  on  the  clover  meadows  round, 
Their  white  tents  pitched,  while  music's  sound, 
From  horn  and  cymbal,  played  some  strain 
That  oft  had  charmed  the  banks  of  Seine, 
And  village  girls  came  down  to  dance 
At  evening  with  the  youths  of  France. 

Fair  was  the  hour,  secluded  dell ! 

When  last  I  taught  my  listening  shell 

Sweet  notes  of  thee.     The  bright  moon  shone, 

As  on  the  shore  I  mused  alone, 

And  frosted  rocks,  and  streams,  and  tree, 

With  rays  that  beamed  like  eyes  on  me. 

A  silver  robe  the  mountain's  hung, 

A  silver  song  the  waters  sung, 

And  many  a  pine  was  heard  to  quiver 

Along  my  own  blue  flowing  river. 

Joseph  H.  Nichols. 


254  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Ipswich,  Mass. 

IPSWICH  TOWN. 

I  LOVE  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town, 
Old  Ipswich  town  in  the  East  countree, 
Whence,  on  the  tide,  you  can  float  down 

Through  the  long  salt  grass  to  the  wailing  sea, 
Where  the  Mayflower  drifted  off  the  bar, 

Sea-worn  and  weary,  long  years  ago, 
And  dared  not  enter,  but  sailed  away 
Till  she  landed  her  boats  in  Plymouth  Bay. 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town; 

Where  Whitfield  preached  in  the  church  on  the  hill, 
Driving  out  the  devil  till  he  leaped  down 

Prom  the  steeple's  top,  where  they  show  you  still, 
Imbedded  deep  in  the  solid  rock, 

The  indelible  print  of  his  cloven  hoof, 
And  tell  you  the  devil  has  never  shown 
Pace  or  hoof  since  that  day  in  the  honest  town. 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town; 

Where  they  shut  up  the  witches  until  the  day 
When  they  should  be  roasted  so  thoroughly  brown, 

In  Salem  village,  twelve  miles  away; 
They've  moved  it  off  for  a  stable  now; 

But  there  are  the  holes  where  the  stout  jail  stood, 
And  at  night,  they  say,  that  over  the  holes 
You  can  see  the  ghost  of  Goody  Coles. 


IPSWICH.  255 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town ; 

That  house  to  your  right,  a  rod  or  more, 
Where  the  stern  old  elm-trees  seem  to  frown 

If  you  peer  too  hard  through  the  open  door, 
Sheltered  the  regicide  judges  three 

When  the  royal  sheriffs  were  after  them, 
And  a  queer  old  villager  once  I  met, 
Who  says  in  the  cellar  they  're  living  yet. 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town;' 

Harry  Main  —  you  have  heard  the  tale  — lived  there : 
He  blasphemed  God,  so  they  put  him  down 

With  an  iron  shovel,  at  Ipswich  Bar ; 
They  chained  him  there  for  a  thousand  years, 

As  the  sea  rolls  up  to  shovel  it  back ; 
So,  when  the  sea  cries,  the  goodwives  say 
"Harry  Main  growls  at  his  work  to-day." 

1  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town; 

There  's  a  graveyard  up  on  the  old  High  Street, 
Where  ten  generations  are  looking  down 

On  the  one  that  is  toiling  at  their  feet : 
Where  the  stones  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  like  troops 

Drawn  up  to  receive  a  cavalry  charge, 
And  graves  have  been  dug  in  graves,  till  the  sod 
Is  the  mould  of  good  men  gone  to  God. 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town, 
Old  Ipswich  town  in  the  East  countree, 

Whence,  on  the  tide,  you  can  float  down 

Through  the  long  salt  grass  to  the  wailing  sea, 


256  POEMS  or  PLACES. 

And  lie  all  day  on  the  glassy  beach, 

And  learn  the  lesson  the  green  waves  teach, 
Till  at  sunset,  from  surf  and  seaweed  brown, 
You  are  pulling  back  to  Ipswich  town. 

James  Appleton  Morgan. 


HEARTBREAK  HILL. 

F  Ipswich  town,  not  far  from  the  sea, 
Rises  a  hill  which  the  people  call 
Heartbreak  Hill,  and  its  history 
Is  an  old,  old  legend,  known  to  all. 

The  selfsame  dreary,  worn-out  tale 

Told  by  all  peoples  in  every  clime, 
Still  to  be  told  till  the  ages  fail, 

And  there  comes  a  pause  in  the  march  of  Time. 

It  was  a  sailor  who  won  the  heart 

Of  an  Indian  maiden,  lithe  and  young; 

And  she  saw  him  over  the  sea  depart, 
While  sweet  in  her  ear  his  promise  rung; 

Tor  he  cried,  as  he  kissed  her  wet  eyes  dry, 
"I'll  come  back,  sweetheart;  keep  your  faith!" 

She  said,  "I  will  watch  while  the  moons  go  by": 
Her  love  was  stronger  than  life  or  death. 

So  this  poor  dusk  Ariadne  kept 

Her  watch  from  the  hill-top  rugged  and  steep; 
Slowly  the  empty  moments  crept 

While  she  studied  the  changing  face  of  the  deep, 


IPSWICH.  257 

Fastening  her  eyes  upon  every  speck 
That  crossed  the  ocean  within  her  ken; 

Might  not  her  lover  be  walking  the  deck, 
Surely  and  swiftly  returning  again? 

The  Isles  of  Shoals  loomed,  lonely  and  dim, 
In  the  northeast  distance  far  and  gray, 

And  on  the  horizon's  uttermost  rim 

The  low  rock  heap  of  Boone  Island  lay. 

And  north  and  south  and  west  and  east 

Stretched  sea  and  land  in  the  blinding  light, 

Till  evening  fell,  and  her  vigil  ceased, 
And  many  a  hearth-glow  lit  the  night, 

To  mock  those  set  and  glittering  eyes 
Fast  growing  wild  as  her  hope  went  out. 

Hateful  seemed  earth,  and  the  hollow  skies, 
Like  her  own  heart,  empty  of  aught  but  doubt. 

Oh,  but  the  weary,  merciless  days, 
With  the  sun  above,  with  the  sea  afar,  — 

No  change  in  her  fixed  and  wistful  gaze 
From  the  morning-red  to  the  evening  star ! 

Oh,  the  winds  that  blew,  and  the  birds  that  sang, 
The  calms  that  smiled,  and  the  storms  that  rolled, 

The  bells  from  the  town  beneath,  that  rang 

Through  the  summer's  heat  and  the  winter's  cold  ! 

The  flash  of  the  plunging  surges  white, 
The  soaring  gull's  wild  boding  cry, 


258  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

She  was  weary  of  all;  there  was  no  delight 
In  heaven  or  earth,  and  she  longed  to  die. 

-•What  was  it  to  her  though  the  Dawn  should  paint 

With  delicate  beauty  skies  and  seas  ? 
But  the  sweet,  sad  sunset  splendors  faint 
Made  her  soul  sick  with  memories. 

Drowning  in  sorrowful  purple  a  sail 

In  the  distant  east,  where  shadows  grew, 

Till  the  twilight  shrouded  it,  cold  and  pale, 
And  the  tide  of  her  anguish  rose  anew. 

Like  a  slender  statue  carved  of  stone 
She  sat,  with  hardly  motion  or  breath. 

She  wept  no  tears  and  she  made  no  moan, 
But  her  love  was  stronger  than  life  or  death. 

He  never  came  back!     Yet  faithful  still, 

She  watched  from  the  hill-top  her  life  away. 

And  the  townsfolk  christened  it  Heartbreak  Hill, 
And  it  bears  the  name  to  this  very  day. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


Isles  of  Shoals,  N.  H. 

PICTURES  FROM  APPLEDORE. 
i. 

AHEAP  of  bare  and  splintery  crags 
Tumbled  about  by  lightning  and  frost, 
With  rifts  and  chasms  and  storm-bleached  jags, 


,  *.! 


ISLES   OF   SHOALS.  259 

That  wait  and  growl  for  a  ship  to  be  lost; 

No  island,  but  rather  the  skeleton 

Of  a  wrecked  and  vengeance-smitten  one, 

Where,  eeons  ago,  with  half-shut  eye, 

The  sluggish  saurian  crawled  to  die, 

Gasping  under  titanic  ferns; 

Ribs  of  rock  that  seaward  jut, 

Granite  shoulders  and  boulders  and  snags, 

Round  which,  though  the  winds  in  heaven  be  shut, 

The  nightmared  ocean  murmurs  and  yearns, 

Welters,  and  swashes,  and  tosses,  and  turns, 

And  the  dreary  black  seaweed  lolls  and  wags ; 

Only  rock  from  shore  to  shore, 

Only  a  moan  through  the  bleak  clefts  blown, 

With  sobs  in  the  rifts  where  the  coarse  kelp  shifts, 

Tailing  and  lifting,  tossing  and  drifting, 

And  under  all  a  deep,  dull  roar, 

Dying  and  swelling,  forevermore, — 

Rock  and  moan  and  roar  alone, 

And  the  dread  of  some  nameless  thing  unknown, 

These  make  Appledore. 

These  make  Appledore  by  night : 

Then  there  are  monsters  left  and  right; 

Every  rock  is  a  different  monster; 

All  you  have  read  of,  fancied,  dreamed, 

When  you  waked  at  night  because  you  screamed, 

There  they  lie  for  half  a  mile, 

Jumbled  together  in  a  pile, 

And  (though  you  know  they  never  once  stir), 

If  you  look  long,  they  seem  to  be  moving 


260  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Just  as  plainly  as  plain  can  be, 

Crushing  and  crowding,  wading  and  shoving 

Out  into  the  awful  sea, 

"Where  you  can  hear  them  snort  and  spout 

With  pauses  between,  as  if  they  were  listening, 

Then  tumult  anon  when  the  surf  breaks  glistening 

In  the  blackness  where  they  wallow  about. 


II. 

All  this  you  would  scarcely  comprehend, 

Should  you  see  the  isle  on  a  sunny  day; 

Then  it  is  simple  enough  in  its  way,  — 

Two  rocky  bulges,  one  at  each  end, 

Witli  a  smaller  bulge  and  a  hollow  between; 

Patches  of  whortleberry  and  bay ; 

Accidents  of  open  green, 

Sprinkled  with  loose  slabs  square  and  gray, 

Like  graveyards  for  ages  deserted;   a  few 

Unsocial  thistles ;    an  elder  or  two, 

Poamed  over  with  blossoms  white  as  spray; 

And  on  the  whole  island  never  a  tree 

Save  a  score  of  sumachs,  high  as  your  knee, 

That  crouch  in  hollows  where  they  may, 

(The  cellars  where  once  stood  a  village,  men  say,) 

Huddling  for  warmth,  and  never  grew 

Tall  enough  for  a  peep  at  the  sea; 

A  general  dazzle  of  open  blue; 

A  breeze  always  blowing  and  playing  rat-tat 

With  the  bow  of  the  ribbon  round  your  hat ; 

A  score  of  sheep  that  do  nothing  but  stare 


ISLES    OF    SHOALS.  261 

Up  and  down  at  you  everywhere; 

Three  or  four  cattle  that  chew  the  cud 

Lying  about  in  a  listless  despair ; 

A  medrick  that  makes  you  look  overhead 

With  short,  sharp  scream,  as  he  sights  his  prey, 

And,  dropping  straight  and  swift  as  lead, 

Splits  the  water  with  sudden  thud ;  — 

This  is  Appledore  by  day. 


in. 

Away  northeast  is  Boone  Island  light; 
You  might  mistake  it  for  a  ship, 
Only  it  stands  too  plumb  upright, 
And  like  the  others  does  not  slip 
Behind  the  sea's  unsteady  brink; 
Though,  if  a  cloud-shade  chance  to  dip 
Upon  it  a  moment,  'twill  suddenly  sink, 
Levelled  and  lost  in  the  darkened  main, 
Till  the  sun  builds  it  suddenly  up  again, 
As  if  with  a  rub  of  Aladdin's  lamp. 
On  the  mainland  you  see  a  misty  camp 
Of  mountains  pitched  tumultuously  : 
That  one  looming  so  long  and  large 
Is  Saddleback,  and  that  point  you  see 
Over  yon  low  and  rounded  marge, 
Like  the  boss  of  a  sleeping  giant's  targe 
Laid  over  his  breast,  is  Ossipee ; 
That  shadow  there  may  be  Kearsarge ; 
That  must  be  Great  Haystack;  I  love  these  names, 
Wherewith  the  lonely  farmer  tames 


262  POEMS   OP  PLACES. 

Nature  to  mute  companionship 

With  his  own  mind's  domestic  mood, 

And  strives  the  surly  world  to  clip 

In  the  arms  of  familiar  habitude. 

'Tis  well  he  could  not  contrive  to  make 

A  Saxon  of  Agamenticus : 

He  glowers  there  to  the  north  of  us, 

Wrapt  in  his  blanket  of  blue  haze, 

Unconvertibly  savage,  and  scorns  to  take 

The  white  man's  baptism  or  his  ways. 

Him  first  on  shore  the  coaster  divines 

Through  the  early  gray,  and  sees  him  shake 

The  morning  mist  from  his  scalp-lock  of  pines; 

Him  first  the  skipper  makes  out  in  the  west, 

Ere  the  earliest  sunstreak  shoots  tremulous, 

Plashing  with  orange  the  palpitant  lines 

Of  mutable  billow,  crest  after  crest, 

And  murmurs  Agamenticus  ! 

As  if  it  were  the  name  of  a  saint. 

But  is  that  a  mountain  playing  cloud, 

Or  a  cloud  playing  mountain,  just  there,  so  faint? 

Look  along  over  the  low  right  shoulder 

Of  Agamenticus  into  that  crowd 

Of  brassy  thunderheads  behind  it ; 

Now  you  have  caught  it,  but,  ere  you  are  older 

By  half  an  hour,  you  will  lose  it  and  find  it 

A  score  of  times ;  while  you  look  't  is  gone, 

And,  just  as  you  've  given  it  up,  anon 

It  is  there  again,  till  your  weary  eyes 

Fancy  they  see  it  waver  and  rise, 

With  its  brother  clouds ;  it  is  Agiochook, 


ISLES    OF    SHOALS.  263 

There  if  you  seek  not,  and  gone  if  you  look, 
Ninety  miles  off  as  the  eagle  flies. 


v. 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm? 

I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 

Butting  against  the  mad  Atlantic, 
When  surge  on  surge  would  heap  enorme, 

Cliffs  of  emerald  topped  with  snow, 

That  lifted  and  lifted,  and  then  let  go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 

A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under; 

And  the  island,  whose  rock-roots  pierce  below 

To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central  fire, 
You  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked, 

As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shudder  and  thrill 

Eight  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill, 
And  to  rise  again  snorting  a  cataract 
Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge, 

While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in  hoarse  and  deep, 
And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge, 

Gathering  itself  for  a  mightier  leap. 

North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs  and  breakers 
You  would  never  dream  of  in  smooth  weather, 

That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 

Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarling  together; 

Look  northward,  where  Duck  Island  lies, 

And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise, 


264  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 

A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white, 

That  glimmer,  and  then  are  out  of  sight, 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss, 

While  you  crossed  the  gusty  desert  by  night, 
The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis ; 
Look  southward  for  White  Island  light, 

The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er  the  tide ; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and  fight, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 

And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and  right, 

Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea, 
And  then  the  lighthouse  slim  and  lone; 
And  whenever  the  weight  of  ocean  is  thrown 
Pull  and  fair  on  White  Island  head, 

A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 

Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  lighthouse  top, 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray  outspread, 

Groping  after  the  little  tower, 

That  seems  to  shrink  and  shorten  and  cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden  drop, 

And  silently  and  fruitlessly 

He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where  drenched  you  stand, 
Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and  roar, 

And  on  the  rock-point  tighten  your  hand, 

As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep, 
That  was  not  there  a  moment  before, 


ISLES    OF    SHOALS.  265 

Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a  heap 
Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 
Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for  all, 

Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 

Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and  more ; 

If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as  the  knees, 

They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  sprig  of  kelp, 

Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help ;  — 
And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  POCAHONTAS. 

I  LIT  the  lamps  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 
Tor  the  sun  dropped  down  and  the  day  was  dead; 
They  shone  like  a  glorious  clustered  flower,  — 
Ten  golden  and  five  red. 

Looking  across,  where  the  line  of  coast 

Stretched  darkly,  shrinking  away  from  the  sea, 

The  lights  sprang  out  at  its  edge,  —  almost 
They  seemed  to  answer  me  ! 

O  warning  lights  !  burn  bright  and  clear, 
Hither  the  storm  comes  !  Leagues  away 

It  moans  and  thunders  low  and  drear, — 
Burn  till  the  break  of  day ! 

Good-night !   I  called  to  the  gulls  that  sailed 
Slow  past  me  through  the  evening  sky; 

And  my  comrades,  answering  shrilly,  hailed 
Me  back  with  boding  cry. 


266  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  mournful  breeze  began  to  blow, 

Weird  music  it  drew  through  the  iron  bars, 
The  sullen  billows  boiled  below, 

And  dimly  peered  the  stars  ; 

The  sails  that  necked  the  ocean  floor 
Erom  east  to  west  leaned  low  and  fled ; 

They  knew  what  came  in  the  distant  roar 
That  filled  the  air  with  dread  ! 

Flung  by  a  fitful  gust,  there  beat 

Against  the  window  a  dash  of  rain;  — 

Steady  as  tramp  of  marching  feet 
Strode  on  the  hurricane. 

It  smote  the  waves  for  a  moment  still, 
Level  and  deadly  white  for  fear; 

The  bare  rock  shuddered,  —  an  awful  thrill 
Shook  even  my  tower  of  cheer. 

Like  all  the  demons  loosed  at  last, 

Whistling  and  shrieking,  wild  and  wide, 

The  mad  wind  raged,  while  strong  and  fast 
Rolled  in  the  rising  tide. 

And  soon  in  ponderous  showers  the  spray, 
Struck  from  the  granite,  reared  and  sprung 

And  clutched  at  tower  and  cottage  gray, 
Where  overwhelmed  they  clung 

Half  drowning  to  the  naked  rock; 
But  still  burned  on  the  faithful  light, 


ISLES    OF    SHOALS.  267 

Nor  faltered  at  the  tempest's  shock, 
Through  all  the  fearful  night. 

Was  it  in  vain?     That  knew  not  we. 

We  seemed,  in  that  confusion  vast 
Of  rushing  wind  and  roaring  sea, 

One  point  whereon  was  cast 

The  whole  Atlantic's  weight  of  brine. 

Heaven  help  the  ship  should  drift  our  way! 
No  matter  how  the  light  might  shine 

Far  on  into  the  day. 

When  morning  dawned,  above  the  din 

Of  gale  and  breaker  boomed  a  gun! 
Another !     We  who  sat  within 

Answered  with  cries  each  one. 

Into  each  other's  eyes  with  fear, 

We  looked  through  helpless  tears,  as  still, 

One  after  one,  near  and  more  near, 
The  signals  pealed,  until 

The  thick  storm  seemed  to  break  apart 
To  show  us,  staggering  to  her  grave, 

The  fated  brig.    We  had  no  heart 
To  look,  for  naught  could  save. 

One  glimpse  of  black  hull  heaving  slow, 
Then  closed  the  mists  o'er  canvas  torn 

And  tangled  ropes  swept  to  and  fro 
From  masts  that  raked  forlorn. 


268  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Weeks  after,  yet  ringed  round  with  spray, 
Our  island  lay,  and  none  might  land; 

Though  blue  the  waters  of  the  bay 
Stretched  calm  on  either  hand. 

And  when  at  last  from  the  distant  shore 

A  little  boat  stole  out,  to  reach 
Our  loneliness,  and  bring  once  more 

Fresh  human  thought  and  speech, 

We  told  our  tale,  and  the  boatmen  cried : 
"'Twas  the  Pocahontas, — all  were  lost! 

Tor  miles  along  the  coast  the  tide 
Her  shattered  timbers  tossed." 

Then  I  looked  the  whole  horizon  round, — 

So  beautiful  the  ocean  spread 
About  us,  o'er  those  sailors  drowned ! 

"Father  in  heaven,"  I  said, — 

A  child's  grief  struggling  in  my  breast, — 
"Do  purposeless  thy  children  meet 

Such  bitter  death?     How  was  it  best 
These  hearts  should  cease  to  beat  ? 

"  0  wherefore  !     Are  we  naught  to  thee  ? 

Like  senseless  weeds  that  rise  and  fall 
Upon  thine  awful  sea,  are  we 

No  more  then,  after  all?" 

And  I  shut  the  beauty  from  my  sight, 

For  I  thought  of  the  dead  that  lay  below; 

From  the  bright  air  faded  the  warmth  and  light, 
There  came  a  chill  like  snow. 


ISLES    OF    SHOALS.  269 

Then  I  heard  the  far-off  rote  resound, 

Where  the  breakers  slow  and  slumberous  rolled, 

And  a  subtile  sense  of  Thought  profound 
Touched  me  with  power  untold. 

And  like  a  voice  eternal  spake 

That  wondrous  rhythm,  and,  "Peace,  be  still!" 
It  murmured,  "bow  thy  head  and  take 

Life's  rapture  and  life's  ill, 

"And  wait.     At  last  all  shall  be  clear." 

The  long,  low,  mellow  music  rose 
And  fell,  and  soothed  my  dreaming  ear 

With  infinite  repose. 

Sighing  I  climbed  the  lighthouse  stair, 

Half  forgetting  my  grief  and  pain; 
And  while  the  day  died,  sweet  and  fair, 

I  lit  the  lamps  again. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


THE  SPANIARDS'  GRAVES  AT  THE  ISLES  OF  SHOALS, 

0  SAILORS,  did  sweet  eyes  look  after  you, 
The  day  you  sailed  away  from  sunny  Spain? 
Bright  eyes  that  followed  fading  ship  and  crew, 
Melting  in  tender  rain? 

Did  no  one  dream  of  that  drear  night  to  be, 

Wild  with  the  wind,  fierce  with  the  stinging  snow, 
When,  on  yon  granite  point  that  frets  the  sea, 
The  ship  met  her  death-blow? 


270  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

•Fifty  long  years  ago  these  sailors  died: 

None  know  how  many  sleep  beneath  the  waves; 
Fourteen  gray  headstones,  rising  side  by  side, 
Point  out  their  nameless  graves,  — 

Lonely,  unknown,  deserted,  but  for  me, 

And  the  wild  birds  that  flit  with  mournful  cry, 
And  sadder  winds,  and  voices  of  the  sea 
That  moans  perpetually. 

Wives,  mothers,  maidens,  wistfully,  in  vain 

Questioned  the  distance  for  the  yearning  sail, 
That,  leaning  landward,  should  have  stretched  again 
White  arms  wide  on  the  gale, 

To  bring  back  their  beloved.     Year  by  year, 

Weary  they  watched,  till  youth  and  beauty  passed, 
And  lustrous  eyes  grew  dim,  and  age  drew  near, 
And  hope  was  dead  at  last. 

Still  summer  broods  o'er  that  delicious  land, 

Rich,  fragrant,  warm  with  skies  of  golden  glow : 
Live  any  yet  of  that  forsaken  band 
Who  loved  so  long  ago? 

0  Spanish  women,  over  the  far  seas, 

Could  I  but  show  you  where  your  dead  repose  ! 
Could  I  send  tidings  on  this  northern  breeze, 
That  strong  and  steady  blows  ! 

Dear  dark-eyed  sisters,  you  remember  yet 

These  you  have  lost,  but  you  can  never  know 
One  stands  at  their  bleak  graves  whose  eyes  are  wet 

With  thinking  of  your  woe  ! 

Celia,  Thaxter. 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

PART  II. 


NEW   ENGLAND. 

Katahdin,  the  Mountain,  Me. 

TO  A  PINE-TREE. 

FAR  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest, 
Purple-blue  with  the  distance  and  vast; 
Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast, 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 

In  the  storm,  like  a  prophet  o'ermaddened, 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branches ; 

Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened, 
Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanches, 

When  whole  mountains  swoop  valeward. 

In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  valleys 
With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  imploring, 

Like  an  old  king  led  forth  from  his  palace, 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pouring 
From  the  city  beneath  him. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  the  slumberer  asleep  'neath  thy  glooming 
Thou  dost  sing  of  wild  billows  in  motion, 

Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  mid  their  booming 
In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 

Whose  finned  isles  are  their  cattle. 

Tor  the  gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 
With  mad  hand  crashing  melody  frantic, 

While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty  desire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 

Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  playmate. 

The  wild  storm  makes  his  lair  in  thy  branches, 
Preying  thence  on  the  continent  under; 

Like  a  lion,  crouched  close  on  his  haunches, 
There  awaiteth  his  leap  the  fierce  thunder, 
Growling  low  with  impatience. 

Spite  of  winter,  thou  keep'st  thy  green  glory, 
Lusty  father  of  Titans  past  number ! 

The  snow-flakes  alone  make  thee  hoary, 
Nestling  close  to  thy  branches  in  slumber, 
And  thee  mantling  with  silence. 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  splendor  of  winter, 
Mid  thy  snow-silvered,  hushed  precipices, 

Hearing  crags  of  green  ice  groan  and  splinter, 
And  then  plunge  down  the  muffled  abysses 
In  the  quiet  of  midnight. 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  glory  of  summer, 
Gazing  down  on  thy  broad  seas  of  forest, 


KEARSARGE,  THE  MOUNTAIN.  3 

On  thy  subjects  that  send  a  proud  murmur 
Up  to  thee,  to  their  sachem,  who  towerest 
From  thy  bleak  throne  to  heaven. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


Kearsarge,  the  Mountain ,  N.  H. 

MOUNT  KEARSARGE. 

KEAKSAKGE,  the  mountain  which  gave  its  name  to  the  ship  that  sank 
the  Alabama,  is  a  noble  granite  peak  in  Merrimack  County,  New  Hamp- 
shire, rising  alone,  more  than  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 

OH,  lift  thy  head,  tbo?i  mountain  lone, 
And  mate  thee  with  the  sun  ! 
Thy  rosy  clouds  are  valeward  blown, 
Thy  stars  that  near  at  midnight  shone 

Gone  heavenward  one  by  one, 
And  half  of  earth,  and  half  of  air, 
Thou  risest  vast,  and  gray,  and  bare, 

And  crowned  with  glory.     Far  southwest 

Monadnock  sinks  to  see, — 
For  all  its  trees  and  towering  crest, 
And  clear  Contoocook  from  its  breast 

Poured  down  for  wood  and  lea, — 
How  statelier  still,  through  frost  and  dewr 
Thy  granite  cleaves  the  distant  blue. 

And  high  to  north,  from  fainter  sky, 
Frauconia's  cliffs  look  down; 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Home  to  their  crags  the  eagles  fly, 
Deep  in  their  caves  the  echoes  die, 

The  sparkling  waters  frown, 
And  the  Great  Face  that  guards  the  glen 

Pales  with  the  pride  of  mortal  men. 

Nay,  from  their  silent,  crystal  seat 
The  White  Hills  scan  the  plain; 

Nor  Saco's  leaping,  lightsome  feet, 

Nor  Ammonoosuc  wild  to  greet 
The  meadows  and  the  main, 

Nor  snows  nor  thunders  can  atone 

Tor  splendor  thou  hast  made  thine  own. 

For  thou  hast  joined  the  immortal  band 
Of  hills  and  streams  and  plains, 

Shrined  in  the  songs  of  native  land,  — 

Linked  with  the  deeds  of  valor  grand 
Told  when  the  bright  day  wanes,  — 

Part  of  the  nation's  life  art  thou, 

0  mountain  of  the  granite  brow  ! 

Not  Pelion  when  the  Argo  rose, 

Grace  of  its  goodliest  trees ; 
Nor  Norway  hills  when  woodman's  blows 
Their  pines  sent  crashing  through  the  snows 

That  kings  might  rove  the  seas ; 
Nor  heights  that  gave  the  Armada's  line, 
Thrilled  with  a  joy  as  pure  as  thine. 

Bold  was  the  ship  thy  name  that  bore; 
Strength  of  the  hills  was  hers; 


KENNEBEC,   THE    RIVER.  5 

Heart  of  the  oaks  thy  pastures  store, 
The  pines  that  hear  the  north-wind  roar, 

The  dark  and  tapering  firs ; 
Nor  Argonaut  nor  Viking  knew 
Sublimer  daring  than  her  crew. 

And  long  as  Freedom  fires  the  soul 

Or  mountains  pierce  the  air, 
Her  fame  shall  shine  on  honor's  scroll; 
Thy  brow  shall  be  the  pilgrim's  goal 

Uplifted  broad  and  fair; 
And,  from  thy  skies,  inspiring  gales 
O'er  future  seas  shall  sweep  our  sails. 

Still  summer  keep  thy  pastures  green, 

And  clothe  thy  oaks  and  pines; 
Brooks  laugh  thy  rifted  rocks  between; 
Snows  fall  serenely  o'er  the  scene 

And  veil  thy  lofty  lines; 
While  crowned  and  peerless  thou  dost  stand, 
The  monarch  of  our  mountain-land. 

Edna  Dean  Proctor. 


Kennebec,  the  River,  Me. 

THE  KENNEBEC. 

THERE  is  a  hill  o'erlooking  Norridgewock 
Whose  summit  is  a  crown  of  mossy  rock, 
Whereon  the  daylight  lingers  ere  it  dies, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

When  the  broad  valley  in  the  gloaming  lies. 

Around  you  are  the  everlasting  hills, 

Whose  presence  all  your  soul  with  worship  fills. 

The  distant  mountains,  purple  clad,  are  grouped 

Like  monarchs,  when  the  golden  sun  has  stooped 

Down  toward  his  journey's  ending  in  the  west, 

The  amaranthine  palace  of  his  rest. 

Below,  the  river,  like  a  sheet  of  glass, 

Reflects  the  glories  of  the  clouds  which  pass 

In  slow  procession,  waiting  for  the  day 

To  change  her  regal  raiment  for  the  gray  — 

The  gleaming  river,  winding  slowly  down 

Beneath  its  shady  banks  from  town  to  town, 

With  here  a  wide  stretch,  like  a  lake,  revealed 

By  the  low  level  of  a  fertile  field, 

And  here  but  hinted  at,  or  half  concealed 

Behind  the  clustering  maples  of  a  grove 

Where  all  the  day  the  mocking  echoes  rove. 

You  look  upon  a  range  of  intervales 

Where  the  abundant  harvest  never  fails. 

You  see  the  milkmaid  drive  the  loitering  line 

Of  solemn-minded,  melancholy  kine. 

Perhaps  a  solitary  crow  flaps  by, 

With  heavy  wing  and  hoarse,  defiant  cry, 

And  settles  on  the  summit  of  the  pine, 

Waiting  in  patience  till  the  friendly  shade 

Shall  shield  the  purport  of  his  nightly  raid. 

Then,  as  the  sun  sinks  in  a  cloud  of  fire, 

The  bell,  which  consecrates  the  chapel  spire, 

Rising  amid  a  perfect  bower  of  trees, 

Sends  forth  its  evening  message  on  the  breeze, 


"  Or  half  concealed 
Behind  the  clustering  maples  of  a  grove."    See  pigo  6. 


KILLINGWORTH. 


And  from  the  hills  which  girt  the  town  around 
Return  the  answers  of  its  silver  sound; 
And  o'er  the  misty  river  and  the  meadows 
Creep  slowly,  slowly,  the  long,  sombre  shadows. 

Anonymous, 


Killingworth,   Conn. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH. 

IT  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building  sing 
Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 

Whom  Saxon  Csedmon  calls  the  Blithe-heart  King; 
When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  expand, 
The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Spring, 
And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 
And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 

Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with  their  glee; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be; 

And  hungry  crows  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  iucessantly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said: 

"  Give  us,  0  Lord,  this  day  our  daily  bread ! " 


8  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed. 

Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 

The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their  fleet; 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 

Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingworth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth, 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe; 

They   shook  their   heads,  and    doomed   with   dreadful 
words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 

Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 

The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering  shreds; 
The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 
Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 
With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 


KILLING-WORTH.  9 

The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid  sight! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 
Three  nights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor  right, 

Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one  who  said, 
"A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society ! " 


The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year  to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the  Will; 

His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondack  hill; 

E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural  lane, 

He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 
Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green  grass, 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 


And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as  snow; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore; 

His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was  slow : 


10  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before; 

He  seemed  the  incarnate  "Well,  I  told  you  so!" 
And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 
There  was  a  street  named  after  him  in  town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning  sound; 

111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and  small; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart, 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start, 

Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expectant  throng; 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 

To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed  down. 

"Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 
Prom  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 

The  Poets ;  in  this  little  town  of  yours, 

You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 


KILLINGWORTH.  "ll 

"  The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny  wood; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm;  the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food ; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  topmost  spray, 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of  song. 

"  You  slay  them  all !  and  wherefore  ?  for  the  gain 
Of  a  scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 

Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain ! 
Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 

Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

"  Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings  these  ? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and  who  taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys, 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught  I 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven  ! 

"Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love] 


12  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 

'T  is  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 
The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 


"  Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without  birds ! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams 
As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams! 
Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 

Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your  teams 
Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 
The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door? 


"  What !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 
Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 

And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  roundelay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 

Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and  brake? 


"You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers;  but  know, 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 


KILLINGWORTH.  13 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 
And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

"How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness, 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 
Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 
The  selfsame  light,  although  averted  hence, 

When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your  speech, 

You.  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach?" 

With  this  he  closed;  and  through  the  audience  went 
A  murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves ; 

The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves ; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 

Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in  beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed;  and,  as  the  record  shows' 

A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making  laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with  applause; 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more  than  each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their  cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from  thee, 

O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began ; 

O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  woodland  crests, 


14  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on  their  breasts, 
Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their  nests ; 
A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds  ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead; 

The  days  were  like  hot  coals ;   the  very  ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes;   in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  aiid  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had  made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the  town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 
Slaughtered  the  Innocents.     From  the  trees  spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 
Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 

Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little  cry ; 
They  wore  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 
The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 

Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  complain, 

Tor  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again; 


KILLING  WORTH.  15 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 
Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 


That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day  book. 

A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with  their  shame, 
And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in  the  brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air ! 

But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was  seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 

As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue  ! 

A  wagon,  o'erarched  with  evergreen, 

Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 

All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street, 

Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 


From  all  the  country  round  these  birds  were  brought, 
By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 

And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons,  sought 
In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved  best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 
Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 

While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 

Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard! 


16  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 

Upou  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow, 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Lexington,  Mass. 

LEXINGTON. 
1775. 

NO  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 
Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways; 

They  loved  not  strife,  they  dreaded  pain; 

They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain, 
That  God  would  make  man's  wrath  his  praise. 

No  seers  were'  they,  but  simple  men ; 
Its  vast  results  the  future  hid : 
The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 

Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

Swift  as  their  summons  came  they  left 
The  plough  mid-furrow  standing  still, 
The  half-ground  corn  grist  in  the  mill, 

The  spade  in  earth,  the  axe  in  cleft. 


LEXINGTON.  1? 

They  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why ; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

And  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all ! 

Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 
All  that  was  theirs  to  give  they  gave. 
The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their  grave 

Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

That  fateful  echo  is  not  dumb : 
The  nations  listening  to  its  sound 
Wait,  from  a  century's  vantage-ground, 

The  holier  triumphs  yet  to  come, — 

The  bridal  time  of  Law  and  Love, 
The  gladness  of  the  world's  release, 
When,  war-sick,  at  the  feet  of  Peace 

The  hawk  shall  nestle  with  the  dove  !  — 

The  golden  age  of  brotherhood 

Unknown  to  other  rivalries 

Than  of  the  mild  humanities, 
And  gracious  interchange  of  good, 

When  closer  strand  shall  lean  to  strand, 

Till  meet,  beneath  saluting  flags, 

The  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags, 
The  lion  of  our  Motherland ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


18  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Lynn,  Mass. 

THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN. 

HEARD   AT   NAHANT. 


0 


CURFEW  of  the  setting  sun !    0  Bells  of  Lynn ! 
O  requiem  of  the  dying  day  !     O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud-cathedral  wafted, 
Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  0  Bells  of  Lynn! 

Borne  on  the  evening-wind  across  the  crimson  twilight, 
O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  0  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond  the  headland, 
Listens,  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

Over  the  shining  sands  the  wandering  cattle  homeward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  0  Bells  of  Lynn! 

The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with  his  naming  signal 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  0   Bells  of 
Lynn  ! 

And  down  the    darkening   coast   run   the   tumultuous 

surges, 
And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  0  Bells  of 

Lynn ! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your  wild  incanta- 
tions, 


LYNN.  19 

Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  0  Bells  of  Lynn ! 
And   startled   at    the    sight,  like   the  weird  woman  of 

Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  0  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


HIGH  ROCK. 

AVERLOOKING  the  town  of  Lynn, 
w   So  far  above  that  the  city's  din 
Mingles  and  blends  with  the  heavy  roar 
Of  the  breakers  along  the  curving  shore, 
Scarred  and  furrowed  and  glacier-seamed, 
Back  in  the  ages  so  long  ago, 
The  boldest  philosopher  never  dreamed 
To  count  the  centuries'  ebb  and  flow, 
Stands  a  rock  with  its  gray  old  face 
Eastward,  ever  turned  to  the  place 
Where  first  the  rim  of  the  sun  is  seen,  — 
Whenever  the  morning  sky  is  bright, — 
Cleaving  the  glistening,  glancing  sheen 
Of  the  sea  with  disk  of  insufferable  light. 
Down  in  tlie  earth  his  roots  strike  deep; 
Up  to  his  breast  the  houses  creep, 
Climbing  e'en  to  his  rugged  face, 
Or  nestling  lovingly  at  his  base. 

Stand  on  his  forehead,  bare  and  brown, 
Send  your  gaze  o'er  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
Away  to  the  line  so  faint  and  dim, 


20  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Where  the  sky  stoops  down  to  the  crystal  rim 
Of  the  broad  Atlantic  whose  billows  toss, 
Wrestling  and  weltering  and  hurrying  on 
With  awful  fury  whenever  across 
His  broad,  bright  surface  with  howl  and  moan, 
The  Tempest  wheels,  with  black  wing  bowed 
To  the  yielding  waters  which  fly  to  the  cloud, 
Or  hurry  along  with  thunderous  shocks 
To  break  on  the  ragged  and  riven  rocks. 

When  the  tide  comes  in  on  a  sunny  day, ' 
You  can  see  the  waves  beat  back  in  spray 
From  the  splintered  spurs  of  Phillips  Head, 
Or  tripping  along  with  dainty  tread, 
As  of  a  million  glancing  feet 
Shake  out  the  light  in  a  quick  retreat, 
Or  along  the  smooth  curve  of  the  beach, 
Snowy  and  curling,  in  long  lines  reach. 

An  islet  anchored  and  held  to  land 

By  a  glistening,  foam-fringed  ribbon  of  sand; 

That  is  Nahant,  and  that  hoary  ledge 

To  the  left  is  Egg  Rock,  like  a  blunted  wedge, 

Cleaving  the  restless  ocean's  breast, 

And  bearing  the  lighthouse  on  its  crest. 

All  these  things  and  a  hundred  more, 

Hill  and  meadow  and  marsh  and  shore, 

Your  eye  o'erlooks  from  the  gray  bluff's  brow  ; 

And  I  sometimes  wonder  what,  if  now 

The  old  rock  had  a  voice,  3t  would  say 

Of  the  countless  years  it  has  gazed  afar 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE.   See  page  21. 


MARBLEHEAD.  21 

Over  the  sea  as  it  looks  to-day; 

Gazed  unmoved,  though  with  furrow  and  scar 

The  sculptor  ages  have  wrought  his  face, 

While  centuries  came  and  went  apace. 

Just  like  the  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  restless  hurrying  tides  below. 

Elizabeth  F.  Merrill 


Marblehead,  Mass. 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl,  * 

Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips,     • 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang : 

"  Here  's  Hud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck ! 
"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again ! " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain ! 
Old* Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 


MAKBLEHEAD.  23 

Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coining  that  might  not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  graudsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head  and  fist  and  hat  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 
"  Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 


24  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Torr'd  an'  futlierr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  !  "  at  last  he  cried,  — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead!" 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him  !  —  why  should  we  ?  " 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run  ! " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


MAEBLEHEAD.  25 


A  PLEA  FOR  FLOOD  IRESON. 

IN  the  spring  of  the  year  1808  the  schooner  Betsy  of  Marblehead 
commanded  by  "  Skipper  Ireson,"  passing  Cape  Cod  on  her  way  home 
from  the  West  Indies,  sighted  a  wreck ;  but  as  it  was  dark  and  the  sea 
was  running  high  at  the  time,  she  was  unable  to  render  any  assistance. 
Soon  after  another  vessel  rescued  the  people  on  the  wreck,  who  reached 
shore  in  season  for  the  news  to  be  carried  to  Marblehead  before  the  Betsy's 
arrival.  The  sailors,  being  called  to  account  by  the  crowd  on  the  wharf, 
protested  that  Ireson  would  not  let  them  go  to  the  relief  of  the  wrecked 
vessel.  This  was  the  spark  needed  to  fire  the  train,  and  the  infuriated  mob 
seized  Ireson,  put  him  into  an  old  dory,  and  dragged  him  toward  Salem,  in- 
tending, it  seems,  to  carry  him  to  Beverly,  where  they  said  he  belonged,  and 
show  him  to  his  own  people. 

OLD  Flood  Ireson!  all  too  long 
Have  jeer  and  jibe  and  ribald  song 
Done  thy  memory  cruel  wrong. 

Old  Flood  Ireson,  bending  low 
Under  the  weight  of  years  and  woe, 
Crept  to  his  refuge  long  ago. 

Old  Flood  Ireson  sleeps  in  his  grave; 
Howls  of  a  mad  mob,  worse  than  the  wave, 
Now  no  more  in  his  ear  shall  rave  ! 

*  *  * 

Gone  is  the  pack  and  gone  the  prey, 
Yet  old  Flood  Ireson's  ghost  to-day 
Is  hunted  still  down  Time's  highway. 

Old  wife  Fame,  with  a  fish-horn's  blare 
Hooting  and  tooting  the  same  old  air, 
Drags  him  along  the  old  thoroughfare, 


26  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Mocked  evermore  with  the  old  refrain, 
Skilfully  wrought  to  a  tuneful  strain, 
Jingling  and  jolting  he  comes  again 

Over  that  road  of  old  renown, 
Fair  broad  avenue,  leading  down 
Through  South  Fields  to  Salem  town, 

Scourged  and  stung  by  the  Muses'  thong, 
Mounted  high  on  the  car  of  song, 
Sight  that  cries,  O  Lord!  how  long 

Shall  heaven  look  on  and  not  take  part 
With  the  poor  old  man  and  his  fluttering  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart? 

Old  Flood  Ireson,  now  when  Fame 
Wipes  away  with  tears  of  shame 
Stains  from  many  an  injured  name, 

Shall  not,  in  the  tuneful  line, 
Beams  of  truth  and  mercy  shine 
Through  the  clouds  that  darken  thine? 

Take  henceforth,  perturbed  sprite, 

From  the  fever  and  the  fright, 

Take  the  rest,  —  thy  well-earned  right. 

Along  the  track  of  that  hard  ride 
The  form  of  Penitence  oft  shall  glide, 
With  tender  Pity  by  her  side; 

And  their  tears,  that  mingling  fall 

On  the  dark  record  they  recall, 

Shall  cleanse  the  stain  and  expiate  all. 

Charles  Timothy  Brooks. 


MARBLEHEAD.  27 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY, 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the  sum- 
mer wearing  late, 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife  and 

children  eight, 

Dropping  down  the  river-harbor  in  the  shallop  "Watch 
and  Wait." 

Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer-morn, 
With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping  their  fruits 

first-born, 
And  the  homesteads   like   green  islands  amid  a  sea  of 

corn. 

Broad  meadows  reached   out  seaward  the  tided  creeks 

between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and  walnuts 

green ;  — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes  had  never  seen. 

Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty  led, 
And  the  voice  of  God   seemed   calling,   to   break  the 

living  bread 
To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on  the  rocks  of  Mar- 

blehead. 

All  day  they  sailed  :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land-breeze 

died, 

The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights  denied, 
And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophesied  ! 


*0  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Blotted  out  were  all  the   coast-lines,  gone  were  rock 

and  wood  and  sand; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder  in  his 

hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and  what 

was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled  round 

him,  weeping  sore : 
"  Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ  is  walking  on 

before 
To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall  be 

no  more." 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain  drawn 

aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror  far 

and  wide ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together  smote  the 

tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the   shallop,  woman's  wail  and 

man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp  and 

bare, 
And,   through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  Avery's 

prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild  waves 
and  the  blast, 


MARBLEHEAD.  29 

On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as  it 

passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was  cast. 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause  of 

wave  and  wind : 
"All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger  just 

behind ; 
Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  thy  ransomed 

find!" 


The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's  last  request ; 
As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet 

hymn  upward  pressed, 
And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to  its  rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from  the  rocks  of 

Marblehead ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes  of  prayer 

were  read; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the  living  mourned 

the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from  the 

squall, 

With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale  recall, 
When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the  Hock 

of  Avery's  Fall ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


POEMS   OF   PLACES. 


BY  THE  SEA-SHORE. 

mHE  curved  strand 

A   Of  cool,  gray  sand 
Lies  like  a  sickle  by  the  sea ; 

The  tide  is  low, 

But  soft  and  slow 
Is  creeping  higher  up  the  lea. 

The  beach-birds  fleet, 

With  twinkling  feet, 
Hurry  and  scurry  to  and  fro, 

And  sip,  and  chat 

Of  this  and  that 
Which  you  and  I  may  never  know. 

The  runlets  gay, 

That  haste  away 
To  meet  each  snowy-bosomed  crest, 

Enrich  the  shore 

With  fleeting  store 
Of  art-defying  arabesque. 

Each  higher  wave 

Doth  touch  and  lave 
A  million  pebbles  smooth  and  bright; 

Straightway  they  grow 

A  beauteous  show, 
With  hues  unknown  before  bedight. 


MARBLEHEAD.  31 

High  up  the  beach, . 

Far  out  of  reach 
Of  common  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 

The  drift-wood's  heap 

Doth  record  keep 
Of  storms  that  perished  long  ago. 

Nor  storms  alone: 

I  hear  the  moan 
Of  voices  choked  by  dashing  brine, 

When  sunken  rock 

Or  tempest  shock 
Crushed  the  good  vessel's  oaken  spine. 

Where  ends  the  beach, 

The  cliffs  upreach 

Their  lichen- wrinkled  foreheads  old ; 
'  And  here  I  rast, 

While  all  the  west 
Grows  brighter  with  the  sunset's  gold. 

Far  out  at  sea, 

The  ships  that  flee 
Along  the  dim  horizon's  line 

Their  sails  unfold 

Like  cloth  of  gold, 
Transfigured  by  that  light  divine. 

A  calm  more  deep, 
As  'twere  asleep, 
Upon  the  weary  ocean  falls; 
So  low  it  sighs, 


32  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Its  murmur  dies, 
While  shrill  the  boding  cricket  calls. 

0  peace  and  rest ! 
Upon  the  breast 

Of  God  himself  I  seem  to  lean, 

No  break,  no  bar 

Of  sun  or  star : 
Just  God  and  I,  with  naught  between. 

Oh,  when  some  day 
In  vain  I  pray 
Tor  days  like  this  to  come  again, 

1  shall  rejoice 

With  heart  and  voice 
That  one  such  day  has  ever  been. 

John  White  Chadwick. 


CAPTAIN  MORROW'S  THANKSGIVING. 

OVER  the  waves  the  Petrel  sped, 
(Captain  Morrow  of  Marblehead,) 
And  one  fine  day  the  sailors  said, 
"Thanksgiving,  sir,  to-morrow." 

"Well,  lads,  we  owe  the  Lord  our  lives, 
Our  happy  homes  and  loving  wives, 
And  we  '11  win  home,  if  each  one  strives, 
And  tell  him  so,  to-morrow." 

Then  all  the  day  was  sound  of  song, 
Work  with  laughter  went  along, 


MARBLEHEAD.  33 

Every  heart  held  promise  strong 
Of  Thanksgiving  on  the  morrow. 

The  daylight  faded  into  night, 
The  trig  ship  was  a  pleasant  sight; 
On  the  horizon  burst  a  light : 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  said  Captain  Morrow. 

A  moment's  space  of  silence  dire, 
And  then  the  cry,  "A  ship  on  fire!" 
"  Set  sails,  my  lads,  we  must  go  nigher 
Though  we  should  lose  to-morrow  !  " 

He  scarce  had  spoke  when,  sound  of  fear, 
The  minute-gun  smote  every  ear  ; 
Then  broke  the  men  into  a  cheer, 
"  Good  boys !  "  said  Captain  Morrow. 

They  turned  the  Petrel  round  about; 
They  backward  turned  with  prayer  and  shout ; 
That  pleading  gun  had  driven  out 
All  thoughts  of  their  to-morrow. 

And  forty  souls,  with  weary  pain, 
The  Petrel  brought  to  life  again, 
From  out  of  whelming  wave  and  flame. 
"  Thank  God ! "  said  Captain  Morrow. 

"Good  comrades,  we  have  made  no  slip 
Between  the  promised  cup  and  lip; 
We'll  hold  'Thanksgiving'  in  the  ship, 
And  then  again  to-morrow." 


34  POEMS    OP   PLACES. 

Be  sure  the  Petrel's  half-fed  throng 
Kept  good  Thanksgiving  all  day  long, 
In  grateful  prayer  and  happy  song, 

Well  led  by  Captain  Morrow. 

Little  K  Ban. 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX    FARM. 

WE  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 
Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not.,  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 
\  The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town,\ 
The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 
The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed  and  who  was  dead, 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
•When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 


MAEBLEHEAD.  35 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark ; 
The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
/A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark} 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, 
The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 

The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again.  % 


86  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

0  flames  that  glowed  !    O  hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Marshfield,  Mass. 

WEBSTER. 

A  CLOUD  is  over  Marslifield,  and  the  wail 
Of  a  vast  empire  floats  upon  the  gale; 
One  without  peer  has  shaken  hands  with  death, 
And  yielded  to  the  elements  his  breath : 
Admonished  that  the  last  great  change  was  nigh, 
Majestic  in  decline,  he  came  to  die 
Back  to  the  rural  scenes  he  loved  so  well, 
Cheered  by  the  low  of  kine,  and  pastoral  bell,  — 
Back,  where  his  ear  once  more  might  catch  the  roll 
Of  the  roused  Ocean,  —  symbol  of  his  soul ! 

The  agony  is  o'er,  —  the  goal  is  won,  — 
Earth  opens  to  receive  her  greatest  son ! 
The  world  seems  poorer  now,  the  sky  less  fair, 
And  reigns  a  brooding  sadness  everywhere  ! 
Mourn,  stern  New  England !   mother  of  the  dead ! 
Bow  to  the  dust  thy  richly  laurelled  head  ! 
He  was  thy  pride,  the  prop  of  thy  renown, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  thy  dazzling  crown ; 


MARTHA'S  VINEYAKD.  37 

Thy  battle-fields  of  liberty  he  trod, 
Holding  thy  soil  in  reverence  next  to  God, 
And  the  proud  triumphs  of  his  matchless  mind 
Are  closely  with  thy  heart-strings  intertwined. 

William  Henry  Cuyler  Hosmer. 


Martha's  Vineyard,  Mass. 

THE  BELLS  OF  EDGARTOWN. 

BUT  one  day  more,  and,  O  happy  bells ! 
Your  peals  shall  ring  in  old  Edgartown, 
With  music  that  rises  and  falls  and  swells, 

Over  the  village  and  past  the  down, 
Music  that  tells  of  two  lives  made  one, 

Past  Katama  and  Roaring-Brook, 
Out  by  Gay  Head,  where,  at  set  of  sun, 
The  lighthouse  gleams  over  hill  and  nook. 

And  now  for  one  last  sail  on  the  sea, 

Another  morn  they  will  take  their  way 
To  his  city  home :  they  must  say  good  by 

In  a  pleasant  sail  from  the  peaceful  bay: 
They  near  the  boat  and  they  spread  the  sail, 

And  merrily  laugh  in  their  careless  glee, 
Though  the  wind  is  blowing  half  a  gale, 

For  an  old,  old  friend  is  the  bounding  sea. 

Beyond  the  point  where  no  shelter  lies, 
The  wild  waves  break  in  a  blinding  spray, 


8  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  dark  squall  gathers  in  angry  skies, 
And  roars  and  whistles  across  their  way : 

Down  with  your  helm  !  let  go  the  sheet ! 
Too  late !   too  late !   for  the  boat  goes  o'er, 

And  lies  on  the  water  a  wreck  complete, 
And  miles  away  is  the  nearest  shore. 

E.  Norman  Gunnison. 


Mattapoisett,  Mass. 

A  SEA-SIDE  IDYL, 

I  WANDERED  to  the  shore,  nor  knew  I  then 
What  my  desire,  —  whether  for  wild  lament, 
Or  sweet  regret,  to  fill  the  idle  pause 
Of  twilight,  melancholy  in  my  house, 
And  watch  the  flowing  tide,  the  passing  sails; 
Or  to  implore  the  air  and  sea  and  sky 
For  that  eternal  passion  in  their  power 
Which  souls  like  mine  who  ponder  on  their  fate 
May  feel,  and  be  as  they, — gods  to  themselves. 
Thither  I  went,  whatever  was  my  mood. 
The  sands,  the  rocks,  the  beds  of  sedge,  and  waves. 
Impelled  to  leave  soft  foam,  compelled  away,  — 
1  saw  alone.     Between  the  east  and  west, 
Along  the  beach  no  creature  moved  besides. 
High  on  the  eastern  point  a  lighthouse  shone; 
Steered  by  its  lamp  a  ship  stood  out  to  sea, 
And  vanished  from  its  rays  towards  the  deep, 


"  Upon  the  murky  sea."    See  page  39. 


MATTAPOISETT.  39 

While  in  the  west,  above  a  wooded  isle, 
An  island-cloud  hung  in  the  emerald  sky, 
Hiding  pale  Venus  in  its  sombre  shade. 
I  wandered  up  and  down  the  sands,  I  loitered 
Among  the  rocks,  and  trampled  through  the  sedge; 
But  I  grew  weary  of  the  stocks  and  stones. 
"  I  will  go  hence/*  I  thought ;    "  the  Elements 
Have  lost  their  charm ;   my  soul  is  dead  to-night. 
O  passive,  creeping  Sea,  and  stagnant  Air, 
Farewell !  dull  sands,  and  rocks,  and  sedge,  farewell." 

Elizabeth  Stoddard. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  YOUTH. 

rough  north-winds  have  left  their  icy  caves 
A     To  growl  and  group  for  prey 

Upon  the  murky  sea ; 
The  lonely  sea-gull  skims  the  sullen  waves 
All  the  gray  winter  day. 

The  mottled  sand-bird  runneth  up  and  down, 

Amongst  the  creaking  sedge, 

Along  the  crusted  beach; 
The  time-stained  houses  of  the  sea-walled  town 

Are  tottering  on  its  edge. 

An  ancient  dwelling,  in  this  ancient  place, 

Stands  in  a  garden  drear, 

A  wreck  with  other  wrecks; 
The  past  is  there,  but  no  one  sees  a  face 

Within,  from  year  to  year. 


40  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

The  wiry  rose-trees  scratch,  the  window-pane, 

The  window  rattles  loud; 

The  wind  beats  at  the  door, 
But  never  gets  an  answer  back  again, 

The  silence  is  so  proud. 

The  last  that  lived  there  was  an  evil  man; 

A  child  the  last  that  died 

Upon  the  mother's  breast. 
It  seemed  to  die  by  some  mysterious  ban; 

Its  grave  is  by  the  side 

Of  an  old  tree,  whose  notched  and  scanty  leaves 

Repeat  the  tale  of  woe, 

And  quiver  day  and  night, 
Till  the  snow  cometh,  and  a  cold  shroud  weaves, 

Whiter  than  that  below. 

This  time  of  year  a  woman  wanders  there  — 

They  say  from  distant  lands : 

She  wears  a  foreign  dress, 
With  jewels  on  her  breast,  and  her  fair  hair 

In  braided  coils  and  bands. 

The  ancient  dwelling  and  the  garden  drear 

At  night  know  something  more: 
Without  her  foreign  dress 
Or  blazing  gems,  this  woman  stealeth  near 

The  threshold  of  the  door. 

The  shadow  strikes  against  the  window-pane; 
She  thrusts  the  thorns  away : 


MELVIN,    THE    RIVER.  41 

Her  eyes  peer  through  the  glass, 
And  down  the  glass  her  great  tears  drip,  like  rain, 
In  the  gray  winter  day. 

The  moon  shines  down  the  dismal  garden  track, 

And  lights  the  little  mound; 

But  when  she  ventures  there, 
The  black  and  threatening  branches  wave  her  back, 

And  guard  the  ghastly  ground. 

What  is  the  story  of  this  buried  past? 

Were  all  its  doors  flung  wide, 

For  us  to  search  its  rooms, 
And  we  to  see  the  race,  from  first  to  last, 

And  how  they  lived  and  died :  — 

Still  would  it  baffle  and  perplex  the  brain, 
But  teach  this  bitter  truth : 

Man  lives  not  in  the  past : 
None  but  a  woman  ever  comes  again 
Back  to  the  house  of  Youth ! 

*  *  * 

Elizabeth  Stoddard. 


Melvin,  the  River,  N.  H. 

THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE, 

WHERE  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles, 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 


42  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Ringed  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones. 

Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleam, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream; 
Melvin  water,  mountain -born, 
All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn ; 
All  the  woodland's  voices  meet, 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 
Over  waters  island-strown, 
Over  silver-sanded  beach, 
Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 
Watch  and  ward  the  mountains  keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  tree 
Carved  his  savage  heraldry? 
Priest  o'  the  pine-wood  temples  dim, 

Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim? 
*  *  * 

Part  thy  blue  lips,  Northern  lake  ! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break ! 
Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree  ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee  ! 
Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign; 


MELVIN,    THE    EIVER.  43 

Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones : 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries, 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 

Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day ; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod, 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope  ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's  ? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin's  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery; 
And  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a  prayer, — 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 

Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast, — 

Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 

In  rock-cave  or  pyramid: 

All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live, 

Well  may  need  the  prayer,  "  Forgive  ! " 


44  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Desert-smothered  caravan, 
Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled, 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled, 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God. 

Oh  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies  ! 

Tor  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts  ? 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead? 
What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery? 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  make 
Double  sunset  in  the  lake; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it, 
Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit; 
And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  soul. 

Hear'st  thou,  0  of  little  faith, 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
What  is  whispered  by  the  trees  ?  — 
"  Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these ; 


MELVIN,    THE    EIVEB.  45 

Trust  him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"  Bliud  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  waiteth  still. 

"  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"  Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison ! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound ! " 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  0  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 
Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam ! 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  O  flowers,  jour  bells  of  bloom ! 
Deep  below,  as  high  above, 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Memphremagog,  the  Lake,    Vt. 

A  LAY  OF  MEMPHREMAGOG. 

NOT  as  when,  in  summer  days, 
Wove  illusive  sunset  haze 
Round  the  mountain,  bald  and  grim; 
Watching  at  the  rocking  rim 
Of  the  cradled  lake,  whose  isles 
Are  the  toys  at  which  it  smiles,  — 
And  when  day,  but  half  awake, 
Saw  the  roe  stoop  to  the  lake, 
And  its  silver  waters  sip, 
With  his  image,  lip  to  lip; 
Listening  close,  with  tremulous  ear, 
To  ten  thousand  warblers  clear, 
Up  the  greenwood  steep  so  far; 
Which  was  dew-drop,  which  was  star, 
Glimmering  near  the  gates  ajar,  — 
What  was  bird-voice,  what  was  psalm, 
Stealing  through  the  radiant  balm, 
Out  the  changeless,  God-lit  sphere, 
Sense  said  not,  nor  eye  nor  ear. 


MEMPHREMAGOG,    THE    LAKE.  47 

Dash  the  canvas,  —  white  for  green ; 
Summer's  gone, — a  winter  scene. 

Owl's  Head  wears  its  coil  of  snow, 
Memphremagog  hides  below; 
Crisp  the  air,  with  frost  and  sleet 
Folding,  in  the  mountain  dim, 
As  his  wings  the  seraphim,  — 
Twain  his  face  and  twain  his  feet. 
Mirroring  waves  no  more  declare 
Passing  thought  of  sky  and  air. 
Moon,  or  stars,  or  bird,  or  cloud, 
Nor  to  winds  confess  aloud, 
Conscience  troubled,  heart  and  head; 
Icc-iucrusted,  deep  snow-spread, 
Nothing  stirs  a  conscience  dead. 

On  the  fir-tree's  outstretched  palms 
Lie  the  bounteous  angel  alms; 
League  on  league  of  untrod  white, 
Save  the  squirrel's  footmarks  slight; 
And  the  red  fox's  deeper  trail, 
Where  he  roamed  the  moonlit  vale ; 
Ay,  and  slant  the  frozen  wave, 
Past  the  smuggler's  island  cave ; 
One  great  furrow,  roughly  ploughed. 
By  a  preying  wolf-pack  loud, 
Pierce  and  lean  and  devil-browed. 
By  their  lair,  'neath  Eagles'  Cliff, 
Oft  the  covetous  white  man's  skiff 
Chased  and  lost  the  birch  canoe, 


48  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

When  some  rock-gate  let  it  through, 
Bearing  to  the  mountain's  bed. 
Of  his  tribe  the  guardian  red, 
Over  a  mysterious  mine, 
Where  the  silver  nuggets  shine  — 
Hidden  still;  there  are  who  say, 
Guards  his  ghost  the  place,  to-day. 

Deep  within  the  solitude 

Of  the  winter-girded  wood, 

Where  no  foot  of  man  comes  near, 

Is  a  herd  of  gentle  deer. 

Six  brave  stags,  with  each  a  mate, 

In  a  city  of  whose  gate 

Spring,  incoming,  holds  the  key,  — 

City  walled  with  porphyry. 

Busy  workers  wrought  betimes, 

Hearing  naught  of  Christmas  chimes, 

Heeding  naught  of  glad  New  Year, 

Daily,  nightly,  building  here. 

Noiseless  workers,  —  trowel's  fray, 

Chisel's  twang,  nor  mattock's  sway 

Tempted  Echo  from  her  haunt; 

Scaffold  high,  nor  ladder  gaunt, 

Stayed  them  up,  or  aided  down, 

While  was  reared  that  forest  town. 

Silence,  save  when  tone  severe, 

As  of  tyrant  overseer,  — 

Was  it  but  the  hoarse  wind's  call  ? 

"Clouds  and  Cold  and  Snowflakes,  all, 

Idlers,  haste,  —  build,  build  your  wall ! " 

L.  S.  Goodwin. 


MERRIMAC,    THE    RIVER.  49 


Merrimac,  the  River. 

THE  MERRIMAC. 

STREAM  of  my  fathers !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There  's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 


50  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail, 

Mit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale ;  * 

And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 

The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 

"Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 

The  Merrimac  rolled  down  his  flood; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 

Which  channels  vast  Agiochook, 

When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 

Prom  that  pure  lake,  "The  Smile  of  Heaven,"8 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain-side,  — 

With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 

1  Captain  Smith.  3  Lake  Winnipisaukee. 


MER11IMAC,    THE    RIVER.  51 

The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story;8 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  StambouPs  waters,  — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look!  —  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin,  . 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 

Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

• 

Home  of  my  fathers  !  —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood: 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak ; 

8  Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory  now  called  Cape  Ann  the  name 
of  Tragabizauda. 


52  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna; 
Yet  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgottcn  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morning  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown, — 
A  phantom,  and  a  dream  alone  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


MEKRIMAC,    THE    RIVER.  53 


THE  MBBEIMiC  KEVISITED, 

rPHE  roll  of  drams  and  the  bugle's  wailing 
J-     Vex  the  air  of  our  vales  no  more ; 
The  spear  is  beaten  to  hooks  of  priming, 
The  share  is  the  sword  the  soldier  wore  ! 

Sing  soft,  sing  low,  our  lowland  river, 
Under  thy  banks  of  laurel  bloom; 

Softly  and  sweet,  as  the  hour  beseemeth, 
Sing  us  the  songs  of  peace  and  home. 

Let  all  the  tenderer  voices  of  nature 
Temper  the  triumph  and  chasten  mirth, 

Full  of  the  infinite  love  and  pity 

For  fallen  martyr  and  darkened  hearth. 

But  to  Him  who  gives  us  beauty  for  ashes, 
And  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning  long, 

Let  thy  hills  give  thanks,  and  all  thy  waters 
Break  into  jubilant  waves  of  song ! 

Bring  us  the  airs  of  hills  and  forests, 
The  sweet  aroma  of  birch  and  pine, 

Give  us  a  waft  of  the  north-wind  laden 
With  sweetbrier  odors  and  breath  of  kine ! 

Bring  us  the  purple  of  mountain  sunsets, 
Shadows  of  clouds  that  rake  the  hills, 

The  green  repose  of  thy  Plymouth  meadows, 
The  gleam  and  ripple  of  Campton  rills. 


54  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Lead  us  away  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 
Slaves  of  fancy,  through  all  thy  miles, 

The  winding  ways  of  Pemigewasset, 
And  Winnipisaukee's  hundred  isles. 

Shatter  in  sunshine  over  thy  ledges, 
Laugh  in  thy  plunges  from  fall  to  fall; 

Play  with  thy  fringes  of  elms,  and  darken 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mountain  wall. 

The  cradle-song  of  thy  hillside  fountains 
Here  in  thy  glory  and  strength  repeat ; 

Give  us  a  taste  of  thy  upland  music, 
Show  us  the  dance  of  thy  silver  feet. 

Into  thy  dutiful  life  of  uses 

Pour  the  music  and  weave  the  flowers ;    • 
With  the  song  of  birds  and  bloom  of  meadows 

Lighten  and  gladden  thy  heart  and  ours. 

Sing  on  !  bring  down,  O  lowland  river, 
The  joy  of  the  hills  to  the  waiting  sea ; 

The  wealth  of  the  vales,  the  pomp  of  mountains, 
The  breath  of  the  woodlands,  bear  with  thee. 

Here,  in  the  calm  of  thy  seaward  valley, 
Mirth  and  labor  shall  hold  their  truce ; 

Dance  of  water  and  mill  of  grinding, 
Both  are  beauty  and  both  are  use. 

Type  of  the  Northland's  strength  and  glory, 
Pride  and  hope  of  our  home  and  race,  — 


MERRIMAC,    THE   RIVER.  55 

Freedom  lending  to  rugged  labor 
Tints  of  beauty  and  lines  of  grace. 

Once  again,  O  beautiful  river, 

Hear  our  greetings  and  take  our  thanks ; 
Hither  we  come,  as  Eastern  pilgrims 

Throng  to  the  Jordan's  sacred  banks. 

For  though  by  the  Master's  feet  untrodden, 
Though  never  his  word  has  stilled  thy  waves, 

Well  for  us  may  thy  shores  be  holy, 
With  Christian  altars  and  saintly  graves. 

And  well  may  we  own  thy  hint  and  token 
Of  fairer  valleys  and  streams  than  these, 

Where  the  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water, 
And  full  of  sap  are  his  healing  trees  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


OUR  RIYER. 

FOE    A    SUMMEE    FESTIVAL     AT     "THE    LAURELS  "    ON    THE 
MERRIMAC. 

ONCE  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height 
The  summer  flowers  have  budded ; 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden  light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of  Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 

We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river: 


56  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 

The  west-wind  down  it  blowing, 
As  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 

Beheld  it  seaward  flowing,  — 
And  bore  its  memory  o'er  the  deep, 

To  soothe  a  martyr's  sadness, 
And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep, 

His  prison-walls  with  gladness. 

We  know  the  world  is  rich  with  streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose  music  murmurs  through  our  dreams 

Of  human  love  and  glory; 
We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are  fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,  poet-tuned,  the  Doon  and  Ayr 

Go  singing  down  their  meadows. 

But  while,  unpictured  and  unsung 

By  painter  or  by  poet, 
Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 

And  cunning  hand  to  show  it, — 
We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 

Above  it,  warm  with  blessing, 
And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 

Awakes  to  our  caressing. 

No  fickle  sun-god  holds  the  flocks 
That  graze  its  shores  in  keeping; 

No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 
The  youth  beside  it  sleeping: 


MERRIMAC,    THE    RIVER.  57 

Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 

The  beautiful  and  human; 
The  heathen  streams  of  Naiads  boast, 

But  ours  of  man  and  woman. 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 

The  ripple  we  are  hearing ; 
It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 

Around  the  settler's  clearing : 
In  Sacramento's  vales  of  com, 

Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 
Our  river  by  its  valley-born 

Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  leud,  —  the  bugle  fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor; 
The  war-storm  shakes  the  solid  hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger; 
Young  eyes  that  last  year  smiled  in  ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And  hands  then  stained  with  fruits  and  flowers 

Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 

But  blue  skies  smile,  and  flowers  bloom  on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing, — 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing. 
His  pine-trees  whisper,  "  Trust  and  wait ! " 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or  fall 

His  love  is  underlying. 


58  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  thou,  0  Mountain-born  !  —  no  more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty, 
To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 

John  Greenleaf  Wkittier. 


Middlesex  County,  Mass. 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy -five; 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 


"  One  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea."    See  page  59 


MIDDLESEX    COUNTY.  59 

Then  lie  said,  "  Good  night ! "  and  with  muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 

A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 


60  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well ! " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 


MIDDLESEX    COUNTY.  Cl 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all !     And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the 

light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 
It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 
He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 


2  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
"Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore ! 

Tor,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


MILTON.  63 

Milton,  Mass. 

SUNDAY  ON  THE  HILL-TOP. 

ONLY  ten  miles  from  the  city, — 
And  how  I  am  lifted  away 
To  the  peace  that  passeth  knowing, 
And  the  light  that  is  not  of  day ! 

All  alone  on  the  hill-top! 

Nothing  but  God  and  me, 
And  the  spring-time's  resurrection, 

Far  shinings  of  the  sea, 

The  river's  laugh  in  the  valley, 

Hills  dreaming  of  their  past; 
And  all  things  silently  opening, 

Opening  into  the  vast ! 

Eternities  past  and  future 

Seem  clinging  to  all  I  see, 
And  things  immortal  cluster 

Around  my  bended  knee. 

That  pebble  —  is  older  than  Adam! 

Secrets  it  hath  to  tell; 
These  rocks  —  they  cry  out  history, 

Could  I  but  listen  well. 

That  pool  knows  the  ocean-feeling 
Of  storm  and  moon-led  tide; 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  sun  finds  its  east  and  west  therein, 
And  the  stars  find  room  to  glide. 

That  lichen's  crinkled  circle' 

Still  creeps  with  the  Life  Divine, 

"Where  the  Holy  Spirit  loitered 

On  its  way  to  this  face  of  mine,  — 

On  its  way  to  the  shining  faces 

Where  angel-lives  are  led; 
And  I  am  the  lichen's  circle, 

That  creeps  with  tiny  tread. 

I  can  hear  these  violets  chorus 

To  the  sky's  benediction  above ; 
And  we  all  are  together  lying 

On  the  bosom  of  Infinite  Love. 

I  —  I  am  a  part  of  the  poem, 

Of  its  every  sight  and  sound, 
iFor  my  heart  beats  inward  rhymings 

To  the  Sabbath  that  lies  around. 

Oh,  the  peace  at  the  heart  of  Nature ! 

Oh,  the  light  that  is  not  of  day  ! 
"Why  seek  it  afar  forever, 

When  it  cannot  be  lifted  away? 

William  Channing  Gannett. 


MINOT'S  LEDGE.  65 

Minofs  Ledge,  Mass. 

HINDI'S  LEDGE. 

LIKE  spectral  hounds  across  the  sky, 
The  white  clouds  scud  before  the  storm; 
And  naked  in  the  howling  night 
The  red-eyed  lighthouse  lifts  its  form. 
The  waves  with  slippery  fingers  clutch 
The  massive  tower,  and  climb  and  fall, 
And,  muttering,  growl  with  baffled  rage 
Their  curses  on  the  sturdy  wall. 

Up  in  the  lonely  tower  he  sits, 
The  keeper  of  the  crimson  light : 
Silent  and  awestruck  does  he  hear 
The  imprecations  of  the  night. 
The  white  spray  beats  against  the  panes 
Like  some  wet  ghost  that  down  the  air 
Is  hunted  by  a  troop  of  fiends, 
And  seeks  a  shelter  anywhere. 

He  prays  aloud,  the  lonely  man, 

For  every  soul  that  night  at  sea, 

But  more  than  all  for  that  brave  boy 

Who  used  to  gayly  climb  his  knee,  — 

Young  Charlie,  with  his  chestnut  hair 

And  hazel  eyes  and  laughing  lip. 

"May  Heaven  look  down,"  the  old  man  cries, 

"  Upon  my  son,  and  on  his  ship ! " 


66  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

While  thus  with  pious  heart  he  prays, 
Tar  in  the  distance  sounds  a  boom : 
He  pauses;  and  again  there  rings 
That  sullen  thunder  through  the  room. 
A  ship  upon  the  shoals  to-night ! 
She  cannot  hold  for  one  half -hour ; 
But  clear  the  ropes  and  grappling-hooks, 
And  trust  in  the  Almighty  Power  ! 

On  the  drenched  gallery  he  stands, 
Striving  to  pierce  the  solid  night : 
Across  the  sea  the  red  eye  throws 
A  steady  crimson  wake  of  light; 
And,  where  it  falls  upon  the  waves, 
He  sees  a  human  head  float  by, 
With  long  drenched  curls  of  chestnut  hair, 
And  wild  but  fearless  hazel  eye. 

Out  with  the  hooks  !     One  mighty  fling ! 
Adown  the  wind  the  long  rope  curls. 
Oh,  will  it  catch?    Ah,  dread  suspense! 
While  the  wild  ocean  wilder  whirls. 
A  steady  pull ;  it  tightens  now : 
Oh  !  his  old  heart  will  burst  with  joy, 
As  on  the  slippery  rocks  he  pulls 
The  breathing  body  of  his  boy. 

Still  sweep  the  spectres  through  the  sky; 
Still  scud  the  clouds  before  the  storm; 
Still  naked  in  the  howling  night 
The  red-eyed  lighthouse  lifts  its  form. 


MONADNOCK,   THE   MOUNTAIN.  67 

Without,  the  world  is  wild  with  rage; 
Unkennelled  demons  are  abroad: 
But  with  the  father  and  the  son 
Within,  there  is  the  peace  of  God. 

Fitz- James  O'Brien,, 


Monadnock,  the  Mountain,  N.  H. 

MONADNOCK. 

mHOUSAND  minstrels  woke  within  me, 
JL          "Our  music's  in  the  hills"  :  — 
Gayest  pictures  rose  to  win  me, 

Leopard-colored  rills. 
"Up!     If  thou  knew'st  who  calls 
To  twilight  parks  of  beech  and  pine, 
High  over  the  river  intervals, 
Above  the  ploughman's  highest  line, 
•    Over  the  owner's  farthest  Mralls ! 
Up !  where  the  airy  citadel 
O'erlooks  the  surging  landscape's  swell ! 
Let  not  unto  the  stones  the  Day 
Her  lily  and  rose,  her  sea  and  land  display ; 
Read  the  celestial  sign! 
Lo !  the  south  answers  to  the  north ; 
Bookworm,  break  this  sloth  urbane; 
A  greater  spirit  bids  thee  forth 
Than  the  gay  dreams  which  thee  detain. 
Mark  how  the  climbing  Oreads 


68  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Beckon  thee  to  their  arcades ! 
Youth,  for  a  moment  free  as  they, 
Teach  thy  feet  to  feel  the  ground, 
Ere  yet  arrives  the  wintry  day 
When  Time  thy  feet  has  bound. 
Take  the  bounty  of  thy  birth, 
Taste  the  lordship  of  the  earth." 

I  heard,  and  I  obeyed, — 
Assured  that  he  who  made  the  claim, 
Well  known,  but  loving  not  a  name, 

Was  not  to  be  gainsaid. 

Ere  yet  the  summoning  voice  was  still, 

I  turned  to  Cheshire's  haughty  hill. 

From  the  fixed  cone  the  cloud-rack  flowed 

Like  ample  banner  flung  abroad 

To  all  the  dwellers  in  the  plains 

Round  about,  a  hundred  miles, 

With  salutation  to  the  sea,  and  to  the  bordering  isles. 

In  his  own  loom's  garment  dressed, 
By  his  proper  bounty  blessed, 
Fast  abides  this  constant  giver, 
Pouring  many  a  cheerful  river; 
To  far  eyes,  an  aerial  isle 
Unploughed,  which  finer  spirits  pile, 
Which  morn  and  crimson  evening  paint 
For  bard,  for  lover,  and  for  saint; 
The  people's  pride,  the  country's  core, 
Inspirer,  prophet  evermore; 
Pillar  which  God  aloft  had  set 


MONADNOCK,  THE  MOUNTAIN.        69 

So  that  men  might  it  not  forget; 
It  should  be  their  life's  ornament, 
And  mix  itself  with  each  event; 
Gauge  and  calendar  and  dial, 
Weatherglass  and  chemic  phial, 
Garden  of  berries,  perch  of  birds, 
Pasture  of  pool-hauntiug  herds. 

*  *  * 

On  the  summit  as  I  stood, 
O'er  the  floor  of  plain  and  flood 
Seemed  to  me,  the  towering  hill 
Was  not  altogether  still, 
But  a  quiet  sense  conveyed; 
If  I  err  not,  thus  it  said:  — 

"Many  feet  in  summer  seek, 

Oft,  my  far-appearing  peak ; 

In  the  dreaded  winter-time, 

None  save  dappling  shadows  climb 

Under  clouds,  my  lonely  head. 

Old  as  the  sun,  old  almost  as  the  shade. 

And  comest  thou 

To  see  strange  forests  and  new  snow, 

And  tread  uplifted  land? 

And  leavest  thou  thy  lowland  race, 

Here  amid  clouds  to  stand? 

And  wouldst  be  my  companion 

Where  I  gaze,  and  still  shall  gaze, 

Through  hoarding  nights  and  spending  days, 

When  forests  fall,  and  man  is  gone, 

Over  tribes  and  over  times, 


70  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

At  the  burning  Lyre, 
Wearing  me, 

With  its  stars  of  northern  fire, 
In  many  a  thousand  years  ? 

*  *  * 

"Monadnock  is  a  mountain  strong, 
Tall  and  good  my  kind  among; 
But  well  I  know,  no  mountain  can, 
Zion  or  Meru,  measure  with  man. 
For  it  is  on  zodiacs  writ, 
Adamant  is  soft  to  wit: 
And  when  the  greater  comes  again 
With  my  secret  in  his  brain, 
I  shall  pass,  as  glides  my  shadow 
Daily  over  hill  and  meadow. 

"Through  all  time,  in  light,  in  gloom, 
Well  I  hear  the  approaching  feet 
On  the  flinty  pathway  beat 
Of  him  that  cometh,  and  shall  come; 
Of  him  who  shall  as  lightly  bear 
My  daily  load  of  woods  and  streams, 
As  doth  this  round  sky-cleaving  boat 
Which  never  strains  its  rocky  beams ; 
Whose  timbers,  as  they  silent  float, 
Alps  and  Caucasus  uprear, 
And  the  long  Alleghanies  here, 
And  all  town-sprinkled  lands  that  be, 
Sailing  through  stars  with  all  their  history. 

"Every  morn  I  lift  my  head, 
See  New  England  underspread, 


MONADNOCK,    THE    MOUNTAIN.  71 

South  from  Saint  Lawrence  to  the   Sound, 
From  Katskill  east  to  the  sea-bound. 
Anchored  fast  for  many  an  age, 
I  await  the  bard  and  sage, 
Who,  in  large  thoughts,  like  fair  pearl-seed, 
Shall  string  Monadnock  like  a  bead. 
*  *  * 

He  comes,  but  not^of  that  race  bred 
Who  daily  climb  my  specular  head. 
Oft  as  morning  wreathes  my  scarf, 
Fled  the  last  plumule  of  the  Dark, 
Pants  up  hither  the  spruce  clerk 
From  South  Coye  and  City  Wharf. 
I  take  him  up  my  rugged  sides, 
Half-repentant,  scant  of  breath,  — 
Bead-eyes  my  granite  chaos  show, 
And  my  midsummer  snow; 
Open  the  daunting  map  beneath,  — 
All  his  county,  sea  and  land, 
Dwarfed  to  measure  of  his  hand ; 
His  day's  ride  is  a  furlong  space, 
His  city-tops  a  glimmering  haze. 
I  plant  his  eyes  on  the  sky -hoop  bounding; 
"See  there  the  grim  gray  rounding 
Of  the  bullet  of  the  earth 
Whereon  ye  sail, 
Tumbling  steep 
In  the  uncontinented  deep." 
He  looks  on  that,  and  he  turns  pale. 
"Tis  even  so,  this  treacherous  kite, 
Farm-furrowed,  town-incrusted  sphere, 


72  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Thoughtless  of  its  anxious  freight, 

Plunges  eyeless  on  forever; 

And  he,  poor  parasite, 

Cooped  in  a  ship  he  cannot  steer, — 

Who  is  the  captain  he  knows  not, 

Port  or  pilot  trows  not, — 

Risk  or  ruin  he  must  share. 

I  scowl  on  him  with  my  cloud, 

With  my  north-wind  chill  his  blood ; 

I  lame  -him,  clattering  down  the  rocks ; 

And  to  live  he  is  in  fear. 

Then,  at  last,  I  let  him  down 

Once  more  into  his  dapper  town, 

To  chatter,  frightened  to  his  clan, 

And  forget  me  if  he  can." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


MONADNOCK. 

UPON  the  far-off  mountain's  brow 
The  angry  storm  has  ceased  to  beat, 
And  broken  clouds  are  gathering  now 
In  sullen  reverence  round  his  feet ; 
I  saw  their  dark  and  crowded  bands 

In  thunder  on  his  breast  descending ; 
But  there  once  more  redeemed  he  stands, 
And  heaven's  clear  arch  is  o'er  him  bending. 

I've  seen  him  when  the  morning  sun 
Burned  like  a  bale-fire  on  the  height; 


MONADNOCK,   THE    MOUNTAIN.  73 

I've  seen  him  when  the  day  was  done, 
Bathed  in  the  evening's  crimson  light. 

I've  seen  him  at  the  midnight  hour, 

When  all  the  world  were  calmly  sleeping, 

Like  some  stern  sentry  in  his  tower, 
His  weary  watch  in  silence  keeping. 

And  there,  forever  firm  and  clear, 

His  lofty  turret  upward  springs; 
He  owns  no  rival  summit  near, 

No  sovereign  but  the  King  of  kings. 
Thousands  of  nations  have  passed  by, 

Thousands  of  years  unknown  to  story, 
And  still  his  aged  walls  on  high 

He  rears,  in  melancholy  glory. 

The  proudest  works  of  human  hands 

Live  but  an  age  before  they  fall; 
While  that  severe  and  hoary  tower 

Outlasts  the  mightiest  of  them  all. 
And  man  himself,  more  frail,  by  far, 

Than  even  the  works  his  hand  is  raising, 
Sinks  downward,  like  the  falling  star 

That  flashes,  and  expires  in  blazing. 

And  all  the  treasures  of  the  heart, 
Its  loves  and  sorrows,  joys  and  fears, 

Its  hopes  and  memories,  must  depart 
To  sleep  with  unremembered  years. 

But  still  that  ancient  rampart  stands 

Unchanged,  though  years  are  passing  o'er  him ; 


74  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

And  time  withdraws  his  powerless  hands, 
While  ages  melt  away  before  him. 

So  should  it  be,  —  for  no  heart  beats 

Within  his  cold  and  silent  breast; 
To  him  no  gentle  voice  repeats 

The  soothing  words  that  make  us  blest. 
And  more  than  this,  —  his  deep  repose 

Is  troubled  by  no  thoughts  of  sorrow ; 
He  hath  no  weary  eyes  to  close, 

No  cause  to  hope  or  fear  to-morrow. 

Farewell !   I  go  my  distant  way ; 

Perchance,  in  some  succeeding  years, 
The  eyes  that  know  no  cloud  to-day 

May  gaze  upon  thee  dim  with  tears. 
Then  may  thy  calm,  unaltering  form 

Inspire  in  me  the  firm  endeavor, 
Like  thee,  to  meet  each  lowering  storm, 

Till  life  and  sorrow  end  forever. 

William  Bourne  Oliver  Peabody. 


Moshassuck,  the  River,  R.  I. 

A  SEPTEMBER  EVENING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE 
MOSHASSUCK. 

AGAIN  September's  golden  day, 
Serenely  still,  intensely  bright, 
Fades  on  the  umbered  hills  away, 
And  melts  into  the  coming  night. 


"  Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn."    See  page  75. 


MOSHASSUCK,    THE    RIVER.  75 

Again  Moshassuck's  silver  tide 
Reflects  each  green  herb  on  its  side, 
Each  tasselled  wreath  and  tangling  vine 
Whose  tendrils  o'er  its  margin  twine. 

And,  standing  on  its  velvet  shore, 

Where  yesternight  with  thee  I  stood, 
I  trace  its  devious  course  once  more, 

Far  winding  on  through  vale  and  wood. 
Now  glimmering  through  yon  golden  mist, 
By  the  last  glinting  sunbeams  kissed, 
Now  lost  where  lengthening  shadows  fall 
From  hazel-copse  and  moss-fringed  wall. 

Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn 

The  lonely  gentian  blossoms  still, 
Still  wave  the  star-flower  and  the  fern 

O'er  the  soft  outline  of  the  hill ; 
While  far  aloft,  where  pine-trees  throw 
Their  shade  athwart  the  sunset  glow, 
Thin  vapors  cloud  the  illumined  air, 
And  parting  daylight  lingers  there. 

But,  ah,  no  longer  thou  art  near 

This  varied  loveliness  to  see, 
And  I,  though  fondly  lingering  here, 

To-night  can  only  think  on  thee;  — 
The  flowers  thy  gentle  hand  caressed 
Still  lie  unwithered  on  my  breast, 
And  still  thy  footsteps  print  the  shore 
Where  thou  and  I  may  rove  no  more. 


76  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Again  I  hear  the  murmuring  full 
Of  water  from  some  distant  dell, 

The  beetle's  hum,  the  cricket's  call, 
And,  far  away,  that  evening  bell, — 

Again,  again  those  sounds  I  hear, 

But,  oh,  how  desolate  and  drear 

They  seem  to-night,  —  how  like  a  knell 

The  music  of  that  evening  bell ! 

Again  the  new  moon  in  the  west, 
Scarce  seen  upon  yon  golden  sky, 

Hangs  o'er  the  mountain's  purple  crest 
With  one  pale  planet  trembling  nigh, — 

And  beautiful  her  pearly  light 

As  when  we  blessed  its  beams  last  night, 

But  thou  art  on  the  far  blue  sea, 

And  I  can  only  think  of  thee. 

Sarah  Helen  Whitman. 


Mount  Desert,  Me. 

ECHO  NOTCH. 

GRIM  mountain  Sprite !   that,  robed  in  woods, 
Dost  sit  among  these  hills,  their  rightful  king, 
Forgive  the  wight  who  rashly  dares 

To  vex  thy  silence  with  his  questioning. 

Adown  thy  steep  and  rugged  flanks 

The  black  fir  glooms  and  the  pale  aspens  quiver, 


MOUNT   DESERT.  77 

And  o'er  thy  glistening,  wind-swept  cliffs 
The  mossy,  perfumed  streamlets  leap  forever. 

We  call  to  thee:   our  feeble  cry 

Dies  'gainst  the  rocky  faces  of  thy  throne; 
And  from  thy  shaggy  bosom  comes 

Thine  answer,  deep-voiced  as  an  organ-tone. 

In  that  broad  breast  no  human  heart 

To  human  pulses  answereth  again: 
The  wandering  wretch,  in  wood-paths  lost, 

To  thy  stern  face  for  pity  looks  in  vain. 

Within  that  sphinx-like  face  we  fain 

Would  read  the  riddle  of  life's  fleeting  story,  — 
Thy  calm  eternal  would  we  grasp, 

And  gild  our  gloom  with  thy  far-shining  glory. 

But  thou !  thou  gazest  on  the  sea, 

With  fir-crowned,  stony  brow  that  changes  never : 
We  leave  thee,  in  dumb  mystery, 

Dread  sprite!  to  heave  that  hoary  bulk  forever. 

Anonymous. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN. 

WITH  jocund  friends  the  island's  mount  I  climb 
To  kindred  gladness  that,  beyond  the  wood 
Whose  pines  are  heavy  with  the  solitude, 
Sacks  all  the  space  of  sea  and  sky  sublime. 

Rocks,  left  austere  by  winter,  laugh  again 
With  sweet  and  happy  hearts  at  summer-tide; 


78  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

O'er  cliff  and  ledge  and  wave  goes  laughter  wide, 
As  o'er  the  sea  noon's  pelting  silver  rain. 

A  flock  of  little  sails  below  appears 

To  forage  all  along  the  shining  waste; 

Now  huddled,  and  now  scattering,  without  haste, 

For  morning  waifs,  like  sea-birds,  each  one  steers. 

Of  all  the  sails  that  catch  the  sun,  and  smile, 
There  's  one  that  takes  my  own  mood  out  to  sea : 
Its  laughing  side  is  hidden  on  the  lee ; 
Its  shadow  tacks  to  windward  all  the  while. 

Mid  all  the  gladness,  just  a  faint  reserve 
Wafts  me  apart,  but  not  to  scowl  and  gloom; 
The  world's  wide  laughter  keeps  me  in  its  room, — 
My  shadow  is  not  sharp  enough  to  swerve. 

'Tis  but  the  thickness  of  a  sail  between. 
A  cloud  has  caught  its  buoyant,  gilded  woof, 
Too  thin  to  keep  the  sailor's  heart  aloof: 
He's  comrade  still  of  all  the  happy  scene. 

John  Weiss. 


GREAT  HEAD. 

THE  ground-pine  flung  its  carpet  on  the  steep, 
As  in  and  out,  along  the  dinted  shore 
We  crept,  the  surf-beat  secrets  to  explore, 
And  map  the  isle  for  afterthought  to  keep. 

And  when  we  paused,  to  brood  with  talk  and  pipe 
Upon  the  color  of  the  cliffs  and  sky, 


MOUNT   DESERT.  79 

To  watch  light  glooms  of  breezes  scurry  by, 
And  let  each  new  surprise  grow  fancy-ripe, 

Between  the  rocks  we  found  our  carpet  spread ; 
From  the  far  softness,  where  the  sky  and  sea 
In  act  of  perfect  marriage  seemed  to  be, 
The  afternoon  along  the  deep  was  led. 

Against  the  seaward  reefs,  from  time  to  time, 
Some  wave,  more  bold  and  eager  than  its  mates, 
Runs  up,  all  white  with  hurrying,  and  waits, 
And  clings,  as  to  a  rugged  verse  the  rhyme; 

And  falling  back  as  slowly  as  a  strain 
That  sings  a  mood  we  fear  will  slip  away, 
Our  eyes,  released,  toward  each  other  stray, 
And  climb,  and  cling,  and  act  the  wave  again. 

In  lulls  of  speech  the  coast  begins  to  croon: 
Our  thought  and  glance  the  far  horizon  sip; 
And  leagues  of  freshness  break  upon  each  lip 
In  tangled  drift  of  mirth  and  talk  and  tune. 

Tired  lids  of  distance  fall;  between,  a  stripe 
Of  mornings  clear,  a  memory,  remains. 
This  eve  we  sit  apart ;  the  autumn  gains ; 
The  cricket's  reverie  must  share  my  pipe. 

John  Weiss, 


80  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Mount  Hope,  E.  I. 

KING  PHILIP. 

ON  Pokanoket's  height 
All  life  is  hushed  beneath  the  summer  heat; 
No  human  step  is  heard  from  morn  to  night, 

And  echo  can  repeat 

Naught  but  'the  lonely  fish-hawk's  piercing  screamsy 
As  swooping  downward  to  the  placid  bay,       "^ 
To  touch  the  water's  breast  he  scarcely  seems, 

Then  slow  flies  homeward  with  his  struggling  prey, 
"Where  mate  and  clamorous  young  hang  eager  o'er 
Their  nest  upon  the  blasted  sycamore. 
You  little  grove  of  trees 
Waves  soundless  in  the  breeze 
That  wanders  down  the  slope ; 
Hushed  by  the  countless  memories 
Which  cluster  round  thy  crest,  renowned  Mount  Hope. 

How  fair  the  scene  ! 

The  city's  gleaming  spires,  the  clustering  towns, 
The  modest  villages,  half  hid  in  green, 

Soft  hills  and  grassy  downs, 
The  dark-blue  waves  of  Narragansett  Bay, 

Flecked  with  the  snowflakes  of  an  hundred  sail, 
And,  southward,  in  the  distance,  cold  and  gray, 
Newport  lies  sleeping  in  her  foggy  veil. 


MOUNT   HOPE.  81 


Beyond  the  eastern  waves, 
Where  Taunton  River  laves 
The  harbor's  sandy  edges, 
Queen  of  a  thousand  iron  slaves, 
Pall  River  nestles  in  her  granite  ledges. 


When  here  King  Philip  stood, 
Or  rested  in  the  niche  we  call  his  throne, 
He  looked  o'er  hill  and  vale  and  swelling  flood, 

Which  once  were  all  his  own. 
Before  the  white  man's  footstep,  day  by  day, 

As  the  sea-tides  encroach  upon  the  sand, 
He  saw  his  proud  possessions  melt  away, 
And  found  himself  a  king  without  a  land. 
Constrained  by  unknown  laws, 
Judged  guilty  without  cause, 
Maddened  by  treachery, 
What  wonder  that  his  tortured  spirit  rose, 

And  turned  upon  his  foes, 
And  told  his  wrongs  in  words  that  still  we  see 

Recorded  on  the  page  of  history. 

Anonymous. 

MOUNT  HOPE. 

THE  morning  air  was  freshly  breathing, 
The  morning  mists  were  wildly  wreathing ; 
Day's  earliest  beams  were  kindling  o'er 
The  wood-crowned  hills  and  murmuring  shore. 
'T  was  summer ;  and  the  forests  threw 


82  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Their  checkered  shapes  of  varying  hue, 
In  mingling,  changeful  shadows  seen, 
O'er  hill  and  bank,  and  headland  green. 
Blithe  birds  were  carolling  on  high 
Their  matin  music  to  the  sky, 
As  glanced  their  brilliant  hues  along, 
Tilling  the  groves  with  life  and  song; 
All  innocent  and  wild  and  free 
Their  sweet,  ethereal  minstrelsy. 
The  dew-drop  sparkled  on  the  spray, 
Danced  on  the  wave  the  inconstant  ray ; 
And  moody  grief,  with  dark  control, 
There  only  swayed  the  human  soul! 

With  equal  swell,  above  the  flood, 
The  forest-cinctured  mountain  stood ; 
Its  eastward  cliffs,  a  rampart  wild, 
Rock  above  rock  sublimely  piled. 
What  scenes  of  beauty  met  his  eye, 
The  watchful  sentinel  on  high  ! 
With  all  its  isles  and  inlets  lay 
Beneath,  the  calm,  majestic  bay; 
Like  molten  gold,  all  glittering  spread, 
Where  the  clear  sun  his  influence  shed; 
In  wreathy,  crisped  brilliance  borne, 
While  laughed  the  radiance  of  the  morn. 
Round  rocks,  that  from  the  headlands  far 
Their  barriers  reared,  with  murmuring  war, 
The  chafing  stream,  in  eddying  play, 
Fretted  and  dashed  its  foamy  spray; 
Along  the  shelving  sands  its  swell 


MOUNT   HOPE.  S3 

With  Lushed  and  equal  cadence  fell; 
And  here,  beneath  the  whispering  grove, 
Ran  rippling  in  the  shadowy  cove. 
Thy  thickets  with  their  liveliest  hue, 
Aquetnet  green !   were  fair  to  view ; 
Far  curved  the  winding  shore,  where  rose 
Pocasset's  hills  in  calm  repose ; 
Or  where  descending  rivers  gave 
Their  tribute  to  the  ampler  wave. 
Emerging  frequent  from  the  tide, 
Scarce  noticed  mid  its  waters  wide, 
Lay  flushed  with  morning's  roseate  smile, 
The  gay  bank. of  some  little  isle; 
Where  the  lone  heron  plumed  his  wing, 
Or  spread  it  as  in  act  to  spring, 
Yet  paused,  as  if  delight  it  gave 
To  bend  above  the  glorious  wave. 

James  Wallis  Eastburn. 


MOUNT  HOPE. 

MOUNT  HOPE,  the  highest  headland  iu  Rhode  Island,  was  the  ancient 
seat  of  Metacomet,  — "  King  Philip,"— the  indomitable  chief  of  the 
Wampanoags.  When,  after  a  long  and  bloody  war,  he  was  conquered  and 
killed  at  last,  his  wife  — Queen  Wootonekanusky  —  was  dragged  from 
her  home  on  Mount  Hope,  and  sold  into  slavery  in  Barbadoes. 


I 


STROLL  through  verdant  fields  to-day, 
Through  waving  woods  and  pastures  sweet, 
To  the  red  warrior's  ancient  seat 
Where  liquid  voices  of  the  bay 
Babble  in  tropic  tongues  around  its  rocky  feet. 


84  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

I  put  my  lips  to  Philip's  spring; 

I  sit  in  Philip's  granite  chair; 

And  thence  I  climb  up,  stair  by  stair, 
And  stand  where  once  the  savage  king 
Stood  and  with  eye  of  hawk  cleft  the  blue  round  of  air, 

On  Narragansett's  sunny  breast 

This  necklace  of  fair  isknds  shone, 
And  Philip,  muttering,  "  All  my  own  !  " 

Looked  north  and  south  and  east  and  west, 
And  waved  his  sceptre  from  this  alabaster  throne. 

His  beacon  on  Pocasset  hill, 

Lighting  the  hero's  path  to  fame 
Whene'er  the  crafty  Pequot  came, 

Blazed  as  the  windows  of  yon  mill 
Now  blaze  at  set  of  sun  with  day's  expiring  flame. 

Always,  at  midnight,  from  a  cloud, 

An  eagle  swoops,  and  hovering  nigh 
This  peak,  utters  one  piercing  cry 

Of  wrath  and  anguish,  long  and  loud, 
xlnd  plunges  once  again  into  the  silent  sky  ! 

The  Wampanoags,  long  since  dead, 

Who  to  these  islands  used  to  cling, 
Spake  of  this  shrieking  midnight  thing 
With  bated  breath,  and,  shuddering,  said, 
"'Tis  angry  Philip's  voice, — the  spectre  of  the  king  !" 


MOUNT   PLEASANT.  85 

All  things  are  changed.     Here  Bristol  sleeps 
And  dreams  within  her  emerald  tent ; 
Yonder  are  picnic  tables  bent 

Beneath  their  burden;   up  the  steeps 
The  martial  strains  arise  and  songs  of  merriment. 

I  pluck  an  aster  on  the  crest; 
It  is  a  child  of  one,  I  know, 
Plucked  here  two  hundred  years  ago, 
And  worn  upon  the  slave-queen's  breast, — 
0,  that  this  blossom  had  a  tongue  to  tell  its  woe ! 

W.  A.  Cro/ut. 


Mount  Pleasant,  Me. 

MOUNT  PLEASANT. 

>m  WAS  a  glorious  scene,  —  the  mountain  height 
JL  Aflame  with  sunset's  colored  light. 

Even  the  black  pines,  grim  and  old, 
Transfigured  stood  with  crowns  of  gold. 

There  on  a  hoary  crag  we  stood 

When  the  tide  of  glory  was  at  its  flood. 

Close  by  our  feet,  the  mountain's  child, 
The  delicate  harebell,  sweetly  smiled, 


86  POEMS  or  PLACES. 

Lifting  its  cups  of  tender  blue 

From  seam  and  rift  where  the  mosses  gre\v. 

The  everlasting's  mimic  snow 
Whitened  the  dry,  crisp  grass  below; 

While  the  yellow  flames  of  golden-rod 
Through  clumps  of  starry  asters  glowed, 

And  the  sumach's  ruddy  fires  burned  through 
Tangled  hazels  of  tawny  hue. 

Below  stretched  wide  the  skirt  of  wood 

Where  the  maple's  green  was  dashed  with  blood; 

Where  the  beech  had  donned  a  golden  brown, 
And  the  ash  was  sad  in  a  purple  gown, 

And  the  straight  birch  stems  gleamed  white  between 
The  sombre  spruces,  darkly  green. 

Clasping  the  mountain's  very  feet, 
The  small  lake  lay,  a  picture  sheet, 

Where  the  pomp  of  sunset  cloud  and  shine 
Glowed  in  a  setting  of  dark  old  pine. 

Ear  in  the  west  blue  peaks  arose,  — 
One  with  a  crest  of  glittering  snows, — 

With  hill  and  valley  and  wood  between, 
And  lakes  transfused  with  the  sunset  sheen. 
*  *  * 

Rose  Sanborn. 


;  The  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea."    See  page  87. 


NAHANT.  87 

Nahant,  Mass. 

PALINGENESIS. 

I  LAY  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 

In  caverns  under  me, 
And  watched    the  waves,   that    tossed    and  fled    and 

glistened, 

Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 
Melted  away  in  mist. 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I  started; 
Eor  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of  those  whom  I  had  known  in  days  departed, 
Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A  moment  only,  and  the  light  and  glory 
Eaded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before; 
And  the  wild-roses  of  the  promontory 
Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and  shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 
.And  cunning  alchemists 


88  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Could  re-create  the  rose  with  all  its  members 
From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 
Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah  me  !   what  wonder-working,  occult  science 
Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once  more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore? 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  for  a  single  hour 

Renew  this  phantom-flower? 

"0,  give  me  back,"  I  cried,  "the  vanished  splendors, 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds  o'er  its  rocky  channel,  and  surrenders 
The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep  ! " 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation, 
Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it  said, 

"  Alas  !   thy  youth  is  dead ! 
It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsation; 
In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  forever  cold  !  " 

Then  said  I,  "From  its  consecrated  cerements 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain; 

But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endearments, 
Go  on  my  way,  like  one  who  looks  before, 

And  turns  to » weep  no  more." 


NAHANT.  89 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  plantations 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 

Of  sunsets  burning  low; 

Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  constellations 
Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 

This  world  and  the  unseen ! 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  caresses, 
What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not  mine, 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine ; 
To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses, 
What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and  loss,    ' 

The  bearing  of  what  cross  ! 

I  do  not  know;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold, 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good  heed, 

Until  "The  End"  I  read. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


WETMORE  COTTAGE. 

TO    G.   W.    C.    AND    C.    P.    C. 

rE  hours  on  the  old  piazza 
That  overhangs  the  sea 
With  a  tender  and  pensive  sweetness 
At  times  steal  over  me; 


90  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

And  again  o'er  the  balcony  leaning, 
We  list  to  the  surf  on  the  beach, 

That  fills  with  its  solemn  warning 
The  intervals  of  speech. 

We  three  sit  at  night  in  the  moonlight, 

As  we  sat  in  the  summer  gone, 
And  we  talk  of  art  and  nature, 

And  sing  as  we  sit  alone; 
We  sing  the  old  songs  of  Sorrento, 

Where  oranges  hang  o'er  the  sea, 
And  our  hearts  are  tender  with  dreaming 

Of  days  that  no  more  shall  be. 

How  gayly  the  hours  went  with  us 

In  those  old  days  that  are  gone, 
Ah !  would  we  were  all  together, 

Where  now  I  am  standing  alone. 
Could  life  be  again  so  perfect? 

Ah,  never !  these  years  so  drain 
The  heart  of  its  freshness  of  feeling, 

But  I  long,  though  the  longing  be  vain. 

William  Wetmore  Story. 


NANTASKET.  91 


AGASSIZ, 

I  STAND  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 
And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted  sea 
Piteouslj  calling  and  lamenting  thee, 
And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 
The  rocks,  the  seaweed  on  the  ocean  floor, 
The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 
Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me; 
Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and  come  no  more  ? 
Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when  common  men 
Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having  and  holding?     Why,  when  thou  hadst  read 
Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?    Why  shouldst  thou  be  dead  ? 
Henry  Wadsioorth  Longfellow. 


Nantasket,  Mass. 

NANTASKET. 

FAIR  is  thy  face,  Nantasket, 
And  fair  thy  curving  shores, — 
The  peering  spires  of  villages, 
The  boatman's  dipping  oars, 
The  lonely  ledge  of  Minot, 

Where  the  watchman  tends  his  light, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  sets  his  perilous  beacon, 
A  star  in  the  stormiest  night. 

Over  thy  vast  sea  highway 

The  great  ships  slide  from  sight, 
And  flocks  of  winged  phantoms 

Flit  by,  like  birds  in  flight. 
Over  the  toppling  sea-wall 

The  home-bound  dories  float, 
And  I  watch  the  patient  fisherman 

Bend  in  his  anchored  boat. 

I  am  alone  with  Nature; 

•  With  the  glad  September  day. 

The  leaning  hills  above  me 

With  golden-rod  are  gay, 
Across  the  fields  of  ether 

Flit  butterflies  at  play, 
And  cones  of  garnet  sumach 

Glow  down  the  country  way. 

The  autumn  dandelion 

Along  the  roadside  burns ; 
Down  from  the  lichened  bowlders 

Quiver  the  plumed  ferns; 
The  cream-white  silk  of  the  milkweed 

Floats  from  its  sea-green  pod; 
Out  from  the  mossy  rock-seams 

Flashes  the  golden-rod. 

The  woodbine's  scarlet  banners 
Flaunt  from  their  towers  of  stone; 


NANTASKET.  93 

The  wan,  wild  morning-glory 

Dies  by  the  road  alone; 
By  the  hill-path  to  the  seaside 

Wave  myriad  azure  bells  ; 
And  over  the  grassy  ramparts  lean 

The  milky  immortelles. 

Hosts  of  gold-hearted  daisies 

Nod  by  the  wayside  bars ; 
The  tangled  thicket  of  green  is  set 

With  the  aster's  purple  stars ; 
Beside  the  brook  the  gentian 

Closes  its  fringed  eyes, 
And  waits  the  later  glory 

Of  October's  yellow  skies. 

Within  the  sea-washed  meadow 

The  wild  grape  climbs  the  wall, 
And  from  the  o'er-ripe  chestnuts 

The  brown  burs  softly  fall. 
I  see  the  tall  reeds  shiver 

Beside  the  salt  sea  marge ; 
I  see  the  sea-bird  glimmer, 

Ear  out  on  airy  barge. 

I  hear  in  the  groves  of  Hingham 

The  friendly  caw  of  the  crow, 
Till  I  sit  again  in  Wachusett's  woods, 

In  August's  sumptuous  glow. 
The  tiny  boom  of  the  beetle 

Strikes  the  shining  rocks  below; 
The  gauzy  oar  of  the  dragon-fly 

Is  beating  to  and  fro. 


94  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

As  the  lovely  ghost  of  the  thistle 

Goes  sailing  softly  by; 
Glad  in  its  second  summer 

Hums  the  awakened  fly; 
The  cumulate  cry  of  the  cricket 

Pierces  the  amber  noon ; 
In  from  the  vast  sea-spaces  comes 

The  clear  call  of  the  loon; 
Over  and  through  it  all  I  hear 

Ocean's  pervasive  rune. 

Against  the  warm  sea-beaches 

Rush  the  wavelets'  eager  lips ; 
Away  o'er  the  sapphire  reaches 

Move  on  the  stately  ships. 
Peace  floats  on  all  their  pennons, 

Sailing  silently  the  main, 
As  if  never  human  anguish, 

As  if  never  human  pain, 
Sought  the  healing  draught  of  Lethe, 

Beyond  the  gleaming  plain. 

Fair  is  the  earth  behind  me, 

Vast  is  the  sea  before, 
Away  through  the  misty  dimness 

Glimmers  a  further  shore. 
It  is  no  realm  enchanted, 

It  cannot  be  more  fair 
Than  this  nook  of  Nature's  Kingdom, 

With  its  spell  of  space  and  air. 

Mary  Clemmer, 


NANTUCKET.  95 


Nantucket,  Mass. 

A  SONG  OF  NANTUCKET. 

IN  the  old  whaling  days,  when  a  ship  was  homeward  boiind  with  a 
fair  wiud,  it  was  a  common  saying  among  the  men  that  the  girls  of  Nan- 
tucket  were  pulling  the  rope  to  draw  them  home. 

THE  land  breaks  out,  like  a  gleam  of  hope, 
Over  the  ocean  foam, 

But  its  daughters  no  longer  are  pulling  the  rope 
That 's  bringing  her  sailors  home. 

Her  whalers  lie  rotting,  and  lone  and  drear, 

Tar  in  some  foreign  port : 
They  have  laid  there  rusting  for  many  a  year, 

Of  water  and  wind  the  sport. 

The  decks  are  piled  with  the  winter  snows, 

The  men  are  scattered,  —  ah  me  ! 
No  masthead  echoes  to  "  There  she  blows ! " 

Tar  out  in  the  Okhotsk  Sea. 

But  her  hearts  are  as  tried,  and  her  men  as  true, 

As,  when  trimming  the  distant  sail, 
They  passed  their  lives  on  the  waters  blue, 

In  hunting  the  Bow  Head  Whale. 

Her  daughters  are  pure  and  sweet  and  fair, 

And  cheerful  and  kind  and  good, 
And  sparkling  water  and  sparkling  air 
Shine  out  in  their  changeful  mood. 

*  *  * 

E.  Norman  Guntdson. 


96  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Narragansett  Bay,  R.  I. 

NARRAGANSETT  BAY. 

FT1HE  sun  is  sinking  from  the  sky 
J-   In  calm  and  cloudless  majesty ; 
And  cooler  hours,  with  gentle  sway, 
Succeed  the  fiery  heat  of  day. 
Forest  and  shore  and  rippling  tide 
Confess  the  evening's  influence  wide, 
Seen  lovelier  in  that  fading  light 
That  heralds  the  approaching  night; 
That  magic  coloring  Nature  throws, 
To  deck  her  beautiful  repose, 
When  floating  on  the  breeze  of  even, 
Long  clouds  of  purple  streak  the  heaven, 
With  brighter  tints  of  glory  blending, 
And  darker  hues  of  night  descending, 
While  hastening  to  its  shady  rest 
Each  weary  songster  seeks  its  nest, 
Chanting  a  last,  a  farewell  lay, 
As  gloomier  falls  the  parting  day. 

Broad  Narragansett's  bosom  blue 
Has  shone  with  every  varying  hue; 
The  mystic  alchemy  of  even 
Its  rich  delusions  all  has  given. 
The  silvery  sheet  unbounded  spread, 
Hirst  melting  from  the  waters  fled ; 


NARRAGANSETT   BAY.  97 

Next  the  wide  path  of  beaten  gold 
Flashing  with  fiery  sparkles  rolled;  — 
As  all  its  gorgeous  glories  died, 
An  amber  tinge  blushed  o'er  the  tide ; 
Taint  and  more  faint,  as  more  remote, 
The  lessening  ripples  peaceful  float ; 
And  now,  one  ruby  line  alone 
Trembles,  is  paler,  and  is  gone, 
And  from  the  blue  wave  fades  away 
The  last  life-tint  of  dying  day  ! 
In  darkness  veiled,  was  seen  no  more 
Canonicut's  extended  shore; 
Each  little  isle,  with  bosom  green, 
Descending  mists  impervious  screen; 
One  gloomy  shade  o'er  all  the  woods 
Of  forest-fringed  Aquetnet  broods; 
Where  solemn  oak  was  seen  before 
Beside  the  rival  sycamore, 
Or  pine  and  cedar  lined  the  height, 
All  in  one  livery  brown  were  dight. 

But  lo  !  with  orb  serene  on  high, 

The  round  moon  climbs  the  eastern  sky ; 

The  stars  all  quench  their  feebler  rays 

Before  her  universal  blaze. 

Round  moon !  how  sweetly  dost  thou  smile 

Above  that  green  reposing  isle, 

Soft  cradled  in  the  illumined  bay, 

Where  from  its  bank  the  shadows  seem 

Melting  in  filmy  light  away. 

Par  does  thy  tempered  lustre  stream, 


98  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Checkering  the  tufted  groves  on  high, 
While  glens  in  gloom  beneath  them  lie. 
Oft  sheeted  with  the  ghostly  beam, 
Mid  the  thick  forest's  mass  of  shade, 
The  shingled  roof  is  gleaming  white, 
Where  labor,  in  the  cultured  glade, 
Has  all  the  wild  a  garden  made. 
And  there  with  silvery  tassels  bright 
The  serried  maize  is  waving  slow, 
While  fitful  shadows  come  and  go, 
Swift  o'er  its  undulating  seas, 
As  gently  breathes  the  evening  breeze. 

James  Wallis  Eastburn. 


IN  NARRAGANSETT  CHURCHYARD. 

A  LONELY  siope  of  fairest  green, 
Furrowed  with  ancient,  low-ridged  graves; 
Downward  the  forest-shadows  lean, 
And  sunlight  comes  in  fitful  waves. 

So  sleeps  the  scene  where,  as  of  old, 
Should  grief  and  memory  oft  repair; 

But  love  has  faded  and  waxed  cold,  — 
How  silent  broods  the  breathing  air ! 

'Neath  slanting  stone  or  massive  tomb 
Each  churchyard  dweller  stirless  sleeps, 

Nor  recks  of  changing  frost  or  bloom, 
Or  distant  cry  of  .ocean  deeps. 

On  throbbing  heart  and  eager  brain 
Well  hath  the  stern  one  wrought  his  spell, 


NARRAGANSETT   BAY.  99 


How  poor  are  words,  and  signs  how  vain, 
The  story  of  one  life  to  tell ! 

On  that  high,  mossy,  crumbling  stone, 
Washed  by  a  century's  dripping  showers, 

Mid  phrases  to  our  fathers  known, 
The  graven  death's-head  dimly  lowers. 

And  there,  on  many  a  weighty  shaft, 
The  last  faint  glow  of  knightly  fame 

Survives  in  emblems  that  would  waft 
To  latest  days  some  honored  name. 


High  on  the  right,  with  graven  stone, 

The  ashes  of  the  powerful  lie; 
Low  on  the  left,  'neath  turf  alone, 

Watched  by  the  same  eternal  sky, 

Repose  at  last  the  humble  throng 

Who  toiled  that  those  might  leisure  know; 
To  these  no  sculptured  signs  belong; 

No  imagery  of  death  and  woe 

Mars  the  sweet  sense  of  glad  release, 
The  rest  that  time  and  nature  yield; 

The  slave,  the  poor,  the  hireling,  cease 
Erom  labor  in  this  tranquil  field. 

Not  all  unheeded  fled  away 

These  shadows  of  the  dusky  past; 

Here  in  some  long-forgotten  day 
The  mourner's  tears  have  fallen  fast. 


100  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

But  ere  the  wanderer's  glance  may  pause 
On  each  neglected,  sunken  mound, 

His  pious  .meed  of  pity  draws 
A  low  response  of  solemn  sound : 

"  Come  not  to  linger  by  our  graves ; 

Plant  not  thy  curious  footstep  here; 
The  past  from  thee  no  memory  craves, 

No  idle  tribute  of  a  tear. 

"  Our  names,  our  lives,  why  seek  to  know  ? 

Avails  it,  then,  that  thou  shouldst  learn 
Of  aught  but  proud  armorial  show, 

Or  brazen  pomp  of  funeral  urn? 

"  See'st  thou  the  glade  in  verdure  drest  ? 

Our  strength  subdued  the  stubborn  soil: 
In  fields  with  golden  promise  blest 

Behold  the  triumph  of  our  toil ! 

"  Nor  we,  the  mothers  of  a  race, 

Less  bravely  strove,  in  evil  days, 
To  cope  with  want,  to  win  a  space 

For  freer  life,  in  broader  ways. 

"What  though  beneath  no  empty  show 

Of  funeral  state  our  relics  rest  ? 
Do  they  the  sweeter  slumber  know 

Who  long  the  marble  couch  have  pressed? 

"To  them  their  cherished  pomp  of  place, 
Their  selfish  pride  of  heartless  powers; 

Be  ours  the  boast  of  loftier  race, — 
Manhood  and  womanhood  were  ours." 

Esther  Vernon  Carpenter. 


NASHUA,    THE    RIVER.  101 

Nashua,  the  River. 

NASHUA. 

OTHOU  who  journeyest  through  that  Eden-clime, 
Winding  thy  devious  way  to  cheat  the  time, 
Delightful  Nashua!  beside  thy  stream, 
Fain  would  I  paint  thy  beauties  as  they  gleam. 
Eccentric  river  !  poet  of  the  woods  ! 
Where,  in  thy  far  secluded  solitudes, 
The  wood-nymphs  sport  and  naiads  plash  thy  wave, 
With  charms  more  sweet  than  ever  Fancy  gave; 
How  oft  with  Mantua's  bard,  from  school  let  free, 
I  've  conned  the  silver  lines  that  flow  like  thee, 
Couched  on  thy  emerald  banks,  at  full  length  laid, 
Where  classic  elms  grew  lavish  of  their  shade, 
Or  indolently  listened,  while  the  throng 
Of  idler  beings  woke  their  summer  song ; 
Or,  with  rude  angling  gear,  outwatched  the  sun, 
Comparing  mine  to  deeds  by  Walton  done. 

Far  down  the  silent  stream,  where  arching  trees 
Bend  their  green  boughs  so  gently  to  the  breeze, 
One  live,  broad  mass  of  molten  crystal  lies, 
Clasping  the  mirrored  beauties  of  the  skies ! 
Look,  how  the  sunshine  breaks  upon  the  plains  ! 
So  the  deep  blush  their  flattered  glory  stains. 

Romantic  river!  on  thy  quiet  breast, 
While  flashed  the  salmon  with  his  lightning  crest, 
Not  long  ago,  the  Indian's  thin  canoe 
Skimmed  lightly  as  the  shadow  which  it  threw; 


102  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Not  long  ago,  beside  thy  banks  of  green, 

The  night-fire  blazed  and  spread  its  dismal  sheen. 

Thou  peaceful  valley !  when  I  think  how  fair 
Thy  various  beauty  shines,  beyond  compare, 
I  cannot  choose  but  own  the  Power  that  gave 
Amidst  thy  woes  a  helping  hand  to  save, 
When  o'er  thy  hills  the  savage  war-whoop  came, 
And  desolation  raised  its  funeral  flame ! 

Rufus  Dawes. 


Natick,  Mass. 

ELIOT'S  OAK. 

THOU  ancient  oak  !  whose  myriad  leaves  are  loud 
With  sounds  of  unintelligible  speech, 
Sounds  as  of  surges  on  a  shingly  beach, 
Or  multitudinous  murmurs  of  a  crowd; 
With  some  mysterious  gift  of  tongues  endowed, 
Thou  speakest  a  different  dialect  to  each ; 
To  me  a  language  that  no  man  can  teach, 
Of  a  lost  race,  long  vanished  like  a  cloud. 
For  underneath  thy  shade,  in  days  remote, 
Seated  like  Abraham  at  eventide 
Beneath  the  oaks  of  Mamre,  the  unknown 
Apostle  of  the  Indians,  Eliot,  wrote 
His  Bible  in  a  language  that  hath  died 
And  is  forgotten,  save  by  thee  alone. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Thou  ancient  oak'*.    See  page  102. 


NEWBURY. 


103 


Newbury,  Mass. 

THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEWBURY. 

"  Concerning  y«  Amphisbaena,  as  soon  as  I  received  your  commands, 
I  made  diligent  inquiry :  ....  be  assures  me  y*  bad  really  two  beads, 
one  aJt  eacb  end ;  two  mouths,  two  stings  or  tongues."  —  REV.  CHKIS- 

TOPHER  TOPPAN  TO  COTTON  MATHEB. 

FAR,  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water  and  air  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes  down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and  brake, 
The  Amphisba3na,  the  Double  Snake ! 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 

Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 

On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 

Pull  of  terror  and  mystery, 

Half  redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 

Of  the  wood  so  dreary  and  dark  and  old, 

Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the  dew 

When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world  was  new, 

And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and  moon, 

Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared  and  hewn. 


104  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 

Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood  blown, 

Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit  the  North, 

Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking  earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 

Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth  grew  cold, 

And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wizard's  boasts, 

And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of  ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 

The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified ;  — 

And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine  own, 

To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor  known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 

And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might  serve; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 

That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not  a  score  ! 

Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 

Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Den, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 

Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written  Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show ; 

Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 

And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 

In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 

T?or  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail  should  be, 

And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 

But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 

Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right; 

Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 

Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 


NEWBURY.  105 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so  near  !  — 

Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear ! 

Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 

Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary  way, 

Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day  ! 

How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 

The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kine, 

The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 

In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird ! 

Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 

In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 

As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 

Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 

And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 

The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm; 

And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to  stay, 

By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break  of  day, 

Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay  ! 

Tar  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 

Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 

The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's  cry; 

And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's  eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 

Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 

All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 

With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 

And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 

Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at  school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 


106  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek: 

And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he  took, 

Behold !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder-Book  ? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 

If  the  snake  does  not/ the  tale  runs  still 

In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 

And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 

Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 

And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and  strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 

The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 

Of  their  gray  heads,  "  Look  at  the  Double  Snake ! 

One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 

The  Amphisbsena  is  living  still ! " 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

tTHE  PKOPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL, 
1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy  meets, 
!For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day  are  hid, 
And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 
The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again : 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and  knee. 
Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 
Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 


NEWBURY.  107 

His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 
Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes  not; 
Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 
With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 
The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to  kiss ! 
True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 
That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust. 

*  *  * 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson  and  gold  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended  bow ; 
A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung ; 
And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and  hill, 
Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 
Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill ; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled  eaves, 
Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple  leaves,  — 
Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man,  — 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 
There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace  show, 


108  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 

The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 

The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn  stairs, 

And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the  crack 

By  the  earthquake  made  a  century  back. 

Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village  spire 

With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun  afire ; 

Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 

And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmering  sands, 

And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast-lines  run, 

The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun  ! 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past  and  old; 
I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told, 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early  days 
Elit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and  rhythmic  chime 
Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of  rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides  stood, 
(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time,) 
And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age,  looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native  town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and  plains, 
His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood  and  wave  and  wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  onusing  mind :  — 

"As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard  the  coast 
As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post; 


NEWBURY.  109 

As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the  deep 

Of  Merrimac  River,  or  sturgeon  leap ; 

As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 

Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond  swim; 

As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 

Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to  go ; 

As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 

The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey  Hill; 

As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the  side 

Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 

And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide ; 

As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 

The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 

When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  an'd  shorn, 

And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  standing  corn ; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 

Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 

And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 

And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set ;  — 

So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  bora, 

Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn  !  — 

By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of  frost, 

Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 

But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's  sight, 

Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light ! " 

The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 

The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl  feeds 

On  hillside  berries  and  marish  seeds, — 

All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 

From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn  rain 


110  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  good  man's  vision  returns  again ! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 
May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 
In  the  human  cornfield  ripe  and  sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign  to  own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  OLD  ELM  OF  NEWBURY. 

DID  ever  it  come  in  your  way  to  pass 
The  silvery  pond,  with  its  fringe  of  grass ; 
And,  threading  the  lane  hard  by,  to  see 
The  veteran  elm  of  Newbury? 

You  saw  how  its  roots  had  grasped  the  ground, 
As  if  it  had  felt  that  the  earth  went  round, 
And  fastened  them  down  with  determined  will 
To  keep  it  steady,  and  hold  it  still. 
Its  aged  trunk,  so  stately  and  strong, 
Has  braved  the  blasts,  as  they've  rushed  along; 
Its  head  has  towered,  and  its  arms  have  spread, 
While  more  than  a  hundred  years  have  fled ! 

Well,  that  old  elm,  that  is  now  so  grand, 

Was  once  a  twig  in  the  rustic  hand 

Of  a  youthful  peasant,  who  went  one  night 

To  visit  his  love,  by  the  tender  light 

Of  the  modest  moon  and  her  twinkling  host, 


NEWBURY.  Ill 

While  the  star  that  lighted  his  bosom  most, 
And  gave  to  his  lonely  feet  their  speed, 
Abode  in  a  cottage  beyond  the  mead! 

*  *  * 

It  is  not  recorded  how  long  he  stayed 
In  the  cheerful  home  of  the  smiling  maid ; 
But  when  he  came  out,  it  was  late  and  dark, 
And  silent, — not  even  a  dog  would  bark, 
To  take  from  his  feeling  of  loneliness, 
And  make  the  length  of  his  way  seem  less. 
He  thought  it  was  strange,  that  the  treacherous  moon 
Should  have  given  the  world  the  slip  so  soon; 
And,  whether  the  eyes  of  the  girl  had  made 
The  stars  of  the  sky  in  his  own  to  fade, 
Or  not,  it  certainly  seemed  to  him 
That  each  grew  distant  and  small  and  dim; 
And  he  shuddered  to  think  he  now  was  about 
To  take  a  long  and  a  lonely  route; 
For  he  did  not  know  what  fearful  sight 
Might  come  to  him  through  the  shadows  of  night ! 

An  elm  grew  close  by  the  cottage's  eaves ; 

So  he  plucked  him  a  twig  well  clothed  with  leaves, 

And  sallying  forth  with  the  supple  arm, 

To  serve  as  a  talisman  parrying  harm, 

He  felt  that,  though  his  heart  was  so  big, 

'Twas  even  the  stouter  for  having  the  twig. 

Tor  this,  he  thought,  would  answer  to  switch 

The  horrors  away,  as  he  crossed  the  ditch, 

The  meadow  and  copse,  wherein,  perchance, 

Will-o'-the-wisp  might  wickedly  dance; 

And,  wielding  it,  keep  him  from  having  a  chill 


112  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

At  the  menacing  sound  of  "  Whip-poor-will ! " 
And  his  flesh  from  creeping  beside  the  bog 
At  the  harsh,  bass  voice  of  the  viewless  frog : 
In  short,  he  felt  that  the  switch  would  be 
Guard,  plaything,  business,  and  company. 

When  he  got  safe  home,  and  joyfully  found 

He  still  was  himself !  and  living  !  and  sound ! 

He  planted  the  twig  by  his  family  cot, 

To  stand  as  a  monument,  marking  the  spot 

It  helped  him  to  reach;  and,  what  was  still  more, 

Because  it  had  grown  by  his  fair  one's  door. 

The  twig  took  root;  and  as  time  flew  by, 
Its  boughs  spread  wide,  and  its  head  grew  high; 
While  the  priest's  good  service  had  long  been  done, 
Which  made  the  youth  and  the  maiden  one; 
And  their  young  scions  arose  and  played 
Around  the  tree,  in  its  leafy  shade. 

But  many  and  many  a  year  has  fled 

Since  they  were  gathered  among  the  dead; 

And  now  their  names,  with  the  moss  o'ergrown, 

Are  veiled  from  sight  on  the  churchyard  stone 

That  leans  away,  in  a  lingering  fall, 

And  owns  the  power  that  shall  level  all 

The  works  that  the  hand  of  man  hath  wrought; 

Bring  him  to  dust,  and  his  name  to  naught. 

While,  near  in  view,  and  just  beyond 

The  grassy  skirts  of  the  silver  pond, 

In  its  "green  old  age,"  stands  the  noble  tr6e, 

The  veteran  elm  of  Newbury. 

Hannah  Flagg  Gould. 


NEWBURYPORT.  113 


Newburyport,  Mass. 

THE  PREACHEB. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Tar  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 

Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town: 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery, 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 

A  crimson -tinted  shadow  lay 

Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting  day 

Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 
It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 
Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 
Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran  the  landscape.     "Yonder  spire 
Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire; 


114  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

What  is  it,  pray?"     "The  Whitefield  Church! 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There  rest  the  marvellous  prophet's  bones." 
Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 
Of  tfie  great  preacher's  life  we  talked ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became 
Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our  blame 
With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 

*  *  * 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known; 
But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 
And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 
Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  chamel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 
And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him  search 
For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whitefield  Church; 
And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts  of  trade 
And  fashion  and  folly  and  pleasure  laid, 


NEWCASTLE.  115 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  intent, 
That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 
Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels  sent. 
And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 
Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 
And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 
The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  defence, 
As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 
"With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder-rod, — 
Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 
Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 
His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Newcastle,  N.  H. 

THE  GRAVE  OF  CHAMPERNOWNE. 

FRANCIS  CHAMPERNOWNB  lies  buried  on  the  sea-side  of  Gerrish  Island, 
his  only  monument  a  little  pile  of  small  stones.  Thomas  de  Cambernon 
was  the  ancestor  to  whom  the  Champernownes  traced  back  their  descent. 
"  Modbury's  blazoned  door  "  alludes  to  one  of  his  descendants,  the  mother 
of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  was  a  Champernowne  of  Modbury. 

THOMAS  BE  CAMBERNON  for  Hastings'  field 
Left  Normandy ;  his  tower  saw  him  no  more  ! 
And  no  crusader's  war-horse  plumed  and  steeled 

Paws  the  grass  now  at  Modbury's  blazoned  door ; 
No  lettered  marble  nor  ancestral  shield,  — 
"Where  all  the  Atlantic  shakes  the  lonesome  shore, 
Lies  ours  forgotten;  only  cobble-stones 

To  tell  us  where  are  Champernowne's  poor  bones. 

John  Elwyn. 


116  POEMS   OF  PLACES. 

New  Haven,    Conn. 

THE  BURYING-GROUND. 

OH,  where  are  they  whose  all  that  earth  could  give 
Beneath  these  senseless  marbles  disappeared  ? 
"Where  even  they  who  taught  these  stones  to  grieve,  — 
The  hands    that   hewed   them,  and   the  hearts  that 

reared  ? 

Such  the  poor  bounds  of  all  that's  hoped  or  feared 
Within  the  griefs  and  smiles  of  this  short  day. 
Here  sank  the  honored,  vanished  the  endeared. 
This  the  last  tribute  love  to  love  could  pay,  — 
An  idle  pageant-pile  to  graces  passed  away. 

Why  deck  these  sculptured  trophies  of  the  tomb  ? 
Why,  victims,  garland  thus  the  spoiler's  fane  ? 
Hope  ye  by  these  to  avert  oblivion's  doom, 
In  grief  ambitious,  and  in  ashes  vain? 
Go,  rather  bid  the  sand  the  trace  retain 
Of  all  that  parted  Virtue  felt  and  did  ! 
Yet  powerless  man  revolts  from  Ruin's  reign; 
And  Pride  has  gleamed  upon  the  coffin-lid, 
And  heaped  o'er  human  dust  the  mountain  pyramid. 

Sink,  mean  memorials  of  what  cannot  die ! 
Be  lowly  as  the  relics  you  o'erspread  ! 
Nor  lift  your  funeral  forms  so  gorgeously, 


NEW    HAVEN.  117 

To  tell  who  slumbers  in  each  lowly  bed. 
I  would  not  honor  thus  the  sainted  dead, 
Nor  to  each  stranger's  careless  eye  declare 
My  sacred  griefs  for  joy  and  friendship  fled. 
No,  let  me  hide  the  names  of  those  that  were, 
Deep  in  my  stricken  heart,  and  shrine  them  only  there. 
Nathaniel  Langdon  Frothingham. 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP. 

IN  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi, 
Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 
That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 
And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting 
Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 

"  0  Lord !  if  it  be  thy  pleasure,"  — 
Thus  prayed  the  old  divine,— 

"To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 
Take  them,  for  they  are  thine ! " 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 
^  And  under  his  breath  said  he, 
"This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty, 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be  ! " 


118  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered :  — 
It  was  in  the  mouth  of  June, 

An  hour  before  the  sunset 
Of  a  windy  afternoon, 

When,  steadily  steering  landward, 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 
Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 
Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP.     See  page  119. 


NEW   LONDON.  119 

And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 
As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 

Each  said  unto  his  friend, 
That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 

And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 

Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 
That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 

He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


New  London,   Conn. 

NEW  LONDON. 

WHEN  this  fair  town  was  Nam-e-aug, 
A  bleak,  rough  waste  of  hill  and  bog, 
In  huts  of  seaweed,  thatch,  and  log, 
Our  fathers  few,  but  strong  and  cheery, 
Sate  down  amid  these  deserts  dreary. 

'T  was  all  a  wild,  unchristian  wood ; 

A  fearful,  boisterous  solitude; 

A  harbor  for  the  wild-fowl's  brood, 
Where  countless  flocks  of  every  pinion 
Held  o'er  the  shores  a  bold  dominion. 

The  sea-hawk  hung  his  cumbrous  nest, 
Oak-propped,  on  every  highland  crest ; 


120  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Cranes  through  the  seedy  marshes  prest ; 
The  curlew,  by  the  river  lying, 
Looked  on  God's  image,  him  defying. 

The  eagle-king  soared  high  and  free, 

His  shadow  on  the  glassy  sea 

A  sudden  ripple  seemed  to  be; 

The  sunlight  in  his  pinions  burning 
Shrouded  him  from  eyes  upturning. 

They  came;  the  weary-footed  band, 

The  paths  they  cleared,  the  streams  they  spanned ; 

The  woodland  genius  grew  more  bland; 
In  haste  his  tangled  vines  unweaving, 
Them  and  their  hopes  with  joy  receiving. 

*  *  * 

Great  hearts  were  those  that  hither  came,  — 

A  Winthrop  of  undying  fame, 

A  Brewster  of  an  honored  name,  — 

Great  hearts,  the  growth  of  three  great  nations, 

Laid  deep  for  us  these  firm  foundations. 

*  *  * 

Frances  M.  Caulk'ms. 


PLOWDEN  HALSEY. 
1812. 

LIVE  the  name  of  Plowden  Halsey ! 
Honor  to  his  hero  soul! 
Tell  the  old  and  noble  story, 
Wreathe  his  name  with  fresher  glory, 
As  the  ages  roll. 


NEW   LONDON.  121 

Off  the  harbor  of  New  London 

Lay  a  British  man-of-war; 
By  her  force  our  troops  annoying, 
And  our  commerce  still  destroying, 

Driving  it  afar. 

Who  will,  in  the  dread  torpedo 

Sinking  down  her  hull  beneath, 
Screw  the  magazine  tremendous, 
Whose  explosive  force  stupendous 
Scatters-  all  in  death  ? 

"I  will  go/'  said  Plowden  Halsey, 
With  the  red  flush  on  his  cheek; 
And  his  slender  form  grew  stately: 
All  around  him  wondered  greatly, 
As  they  heard  him  speak. 

"I  will  go,"  said  Plowden  Halsey, 
"  Some  heart  must  the  peril  brave. 

Never  say  that  fear  appalls  me. 

Let  me  go;  my  country  calls  me, 
Honored,  if  I  save. 

"  Let  me  go ;  and,  safe  returning, 
Life  has  higher  power  to  bless. 
Let  me  go ;  and,  even  if  failing, 
Take  this  comfort  mid  bewailing,  — 
Noble  failure  is  success." 


Oh,  the  night  was  wild  and  stormy ! 
Shrouding  mists  came  closely  down; 


122  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Thick  the  murky  air  was  glooming, 
And  the  sullen  waves  were  booming  j 
Dark  the  tempest's  frown. 

Out  into  the  formless   darkness 

Strong  hands  bent  the  springing  oar ; 
Died  away  the  friendly  voices, 
Hushed  were  all  the  murmured  noises; 
Died  the  lights  on  shore. 

Underneath  the  tall  mast's  shadow 
Rowing  close,  the  youth  they  left ; 

Prom  the  peril  still  unshrinking, 

In  the  fatal  engine  sinking, 
Under-waves  he  cleft. 

Poured  the  rain  in  rushing  torrents, 

Down  the  darkness  driven  aslope ; 

Comrades,  mid  the  wild  commotion, 

"Watched  the  deed  of  stern  devotion 

Tearful,  yet  with  hope. 

Ha !  the  ship  has  caught  the  danger ! 

Lights  are  hurrying  from  below  ! 
Peals  the  alarm-gun!     Men  are  leaping 
Into  the  boats  !     With  swift  oars  sweeping 

Out,  to  seize  the  foe. 

Closer  round  they  draw  the  circle, — 

Have  they  won  the  fearful  prize  ? 
Louder  than  the  pealing  thunder, 
Bursting  all  the  waves  asunder, 
Elaming  on  the  skies, 


NEW   LONDON.  123 

ponies  the  terrible  explosion  ! 

Vast  and  hollow  is  the  square 
Where  the  many  boats  were  sailing, 
And  the  awful  light  is  paling, 

And  no  boats  are  there  ! 

Reels  the  ship  in  foaming  waters, 

Lashing  furious  to  the  shore; 
And  the  storm-rage  grows  intenser, 
And  the  darkness  gathers  denser, 

Denser  than  before. 

Where  is  noble  Plowden  Halsey? 

Yainly  do  his  comrades  row 
All  the  night.     O  night  appalling ! 
Irresponsive  to  their  calling, 

Plowden  sleeps  below. 

*  *  * 

Caroline  F.  Orne. 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

THE  Bridgeport  paper  of  March,  1823,  said :  "  Arrived,  schooner  Fame, 
from  Charleston,  via  New  London.  While  at  anchor  in  that  harbor,  dur- 
ing the  rain-storm  on  Thursday  evening  last,  the  Fame  was  run  foul  of  by 
the  wreck  of  the  Methodist  Meeting-House  from  Norwich,  which  was 
carried  away  in  the  late  freshet." 

SOLEMN  he  paced  upon  that  schooner's  deck, 
And  muttered  of  his  hardships:  "I  have  been 
Where  the  wild  will  of  Mississippi's  tide 
Has  dashed  me  on  the  sawyer;  I  have  sailed 
In  the  thick  night,  along  the  wave-washed  edge 


124  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Of  ice,  in  acres,  by  the  pitiless  coast 

Of  Labrador;  and  I  have  scraped  my  keel 

O'er  coral  rocks  in  Madagascar  seas, 

And  often  in  my  cold  and  midnight  watch 

Have  heard  the  warning  voice  of  the  lee  shore 

Speaking  in  breakers  !     Ay,  and  I  have  seen 

The  whale  and  sword-fish  fight  beneath  my  bows; 

And  when  they  made  the  deep  boil  like  a  pot, 

Have  swung  into  its  vortex;  and  I  know 

To  cord  my  vessel  with  a  sailor's  skill, 

And  brave  such  dangers  with  a  sailor's  heart : 

But  never  yet  upon  the  stormy  wave, 

Or  where  the  river  mixes  with  the  main, 

Or  in  the  chafing  anchorage  of  the  bay, 

In  all  my  rough  experience  of  harm, 

Met  I  —  a  Methodist  meeting-house  ! 

*  *  * 

Cat-head,  or  beam,  or  davit  has  it  none, 
Starboard  nor  larboard,  gunwale,  stem  nor  stern ! 
It  comes  in  such  a  "  questionable  shape," 
I  cannot  even  speak  it !     Up  jib,  Josey, 
And  make  for  Bridgeport !   There,  where  Stratford  Point, 
Long  Beach,  Fairweather  Island,  and  the  buoy, 
Are  safe  from  such  encounters,  we  '11  protest ! 
And  Yankee  legends  long  shall  tell  the  tale. 
That  once  a  Charleston  schooner  was  beset, 
Hiding  at  anchor,  by  a  meeting-house. 

John  Gardner  Calkins  Brainard. 


NEWPORT.  125 

Newport,  R.  I. 

THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"  HPEAK  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 

KJ  Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

Tor  this  I  sought  thee. 


126  POEMS    OP   PLACES. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor,  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led, 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing, 


1  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear."    See  page  126 


NEWPORT.  127 


As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 

Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 

Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 


128  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Eairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 


NEWPORT.  129 

Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  napping  sail, 
Death !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water ! 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 


130  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Tell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful! 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!" 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE. 

THEY  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 
(I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me); 
But  her  spirit  lives,  and  her  soul  is  part 
Of  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 


NEWPORT.  131 

Her  lover  was  fickle  and  fine  and  French: 

It  was  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
When  he  sailed  away  from  her  arms  —  poor  wench  — 

With  the  Admiral  Rochambeau. 

I  marvel  much  what  periwigged  phrase 
Won  the  heart  of  this  sentimental  Quaker, 

At  what  golden-laced  speech  of  those  modish  days 
She  listened  —  the  mischief  take  her! 

But  she  kept  the  posies  of  mignonette 

That  he  gave;   and  ever  as  their  bloom  failed 

And  faded  (though  with  her  tears  still  wet) 
Her  youth  with  their  own  exhaled. 

Till  one  night,  when  the  sea-fog  wrapped  a  shroud 
Round  spar  and  spire  and  tarn  and  tree, 

Her  soul  went  up  on  that  lifted  cloud 
Erom  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 

And  the  air  is  filled  that  she  passes  through 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 

The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet, 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story ;   yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way? 
*  *  * 

I  sit  in  the  sad  old  house  to-night,  — 
Myself  a  ghost  from  a  farther  sea; 


132  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  I  trust  that  this  Quaker  woman  might, 
In  courtesy,  visit  me. 

For  the  laugh  is  fled  from  porch  and  lawn, 
And  the  bugle  died  from  the  fort  on  the  hill, 

And  the  twitter  of  girls  on  the  stairs  is  gone, 
And  the  grand  piano  is  still. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  clock  strikes  two; 

And  there  is  no  sound  in  the  sad  old  house, 
But  the  long  veranda  dripping  with  dew, 

And  in  the  wainscot  a  mouse. 

The  light  of  my  study-lamp  streams  out 
From  the  library  door,  but  has  gone  astray 

In  the  depths  of  the  darkened  hall.     Small  doubt 
But  the  Quakeress  knows  the  way. 

Was  it  the  trick  of  a  sense  o'erwrought 
With  outward  watching  and  inward  fret? 

But  I  swear  that  the  air  just  now  was  fraught 
With  the  odor  of  mignonette  ! 

I  open  the  window,  and  seem  almost  — 
So  still  lies  the  ocean  —  to  hear  the  beat 

Of  its  Great  Gulf  artery  off  the  coast, 
And  to  bask  in  its  tropic  heat. 

In  my  neighbor's  windows  the  gas-lights  flare, 
As  the  dancers  swing  in  a  waltz  of  Strauss; 

And  I  wonder  now  could  I  fit  that  air 
To  the  song  of  this  sad  old  house. 


NEWPORT.  133 

And  no  odor  of  mignonette  there  is 

But  the  breath  of  morn  on  the  dewy  lawn; 

And  mayhap  from  causes  as  slight  as  this 
The  quaint  old  legend  is  born. 

But  the  soul  of  that  subtle,  sad  perfume, 
As  the  spiced  embalmings,  they  say,  outlast 

The  mummy  laid  in  his  rocky  tomb, 
Awakens  my  buried  past. 

And  I  think  of  the  passion  that  shook  my  youth, 
Of  its  aimless  loves  and  its  idle  pains, 

And  am  thankful  now  for  the  certain  truth 
That  only  the  sweet  remains. 

And  I  hear  no  rustle  of  stiff  brocade, 
And  I  see  no  face  at  my  library  door; 

Tor  now  that  the  ghosts  of  my  heart  are  laid, 
She  is  viewless  forevermore. 

But  whether  she  came  as  a  faint  perfume, 
Or  whether  a  spirit  in  stole  of  white, 

I  feel,  as  I  pass  from  the  darkened  room, 
She  has  been  with  my  soul  to-night! 

Bret  Harte. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE. 

IT  is  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Since  the  day  that  the  Count  de  Rochambeau  — 
Our  ally  against  the  British  crown-— 
Met  Washington  in  Newport  town. 


134  -  POEMS   OP   PLACES. 

'T  was  the  month  of  March,  and  the  air  was  chill, 
But  bareheaded  over  Aquidneck  hill, 
Guest  and  host  they  took  their  way, 
While  on  either  side  was  the  grand  array 

Of  a  gallant  army,  Trench  and  fine, 
Banged  three  deep  in  a  glittering  line ; 
And  the  French  fleet  sent  a  welcome  roar 
Of  a  hundred  guns  from  Canonicut  shore. 

And  the  bells  rang  out  from  every  steeple, 
And  from  street  to  street  the  Newport  people 
Followed  and  cheered,  with  a  hearty  zest, 
De  Rochambeau  and  his  honored  guest. 

And  women  out  of  the  windows  leant, 
And  out  of  the  windows  smiled  and  sent 
Many  a  coy  admiring  glance 
To  the  fine  young  officers  of  France. 

And  the  story  goes,  that  the  belle  of  the  town 
Kissed  a  rose  and  flung  it  down 
Straight  at  the  feet  of  De  Rochambeau; 
And  the  gallant  marshal,  bending  low, 

Lifted  it  up  with  a  Frenchman's  grace, 
And  kissed  it  back,  with  a  glance  at  the  face 
Of  the  daring  maiden  where  she  stood, 
Blushing  out  of  her  silken  hood. 

That  night  at  the  ball,  still  the  story  goes, 
The  Marshal  of  France  wore  a  faded  rose 


NEWPORT.  135 

In  Ms  gold-laced  coat;   but  lie  looked  in  vain 
For  the  giver's  beautiful  face  again. 

Night  after  night  and  day  after  day, 
The  Frenchman  eagerly  sought,  they  say, 
At  feast,  or  at  church,  or  along  the  street, 
Tor  the  girl  who  flung  her  rose  at  his  feet. 

And  she,  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
Was  speeding  farther  and  farther  away 
From  the  fatal  window,  the  fatal  street, 
"Where  her  passionate  heart  had  suddenly  beat 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  cool  control 

A  Puritan  teaches  to  heart  and  soul; 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  wrathful  eyes 

Of  one  who  had  watched  in  dismayed  surprise 

From  the  street  below;  and  taking  the  gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage, 
He  swore,  this  old  colonial  squire, 
That  before  the  daylight  should  expire, 

This  daughter  of  his,  with  her  wit  and  grace, 
And  her  dangerous  heart  and  her  beautiful  face, 
Should  be  on  her  way  to  a  sure  retreat, 
Where  no  rose  of  hers  could  fall  at  the  feet 

Of  a  cursed  Frenchman,  high  or  low; 
And  so  while  the  Count  de  Rochambeau 
In  his  gold-laced  coat  wore  a  faded  flower, 
And  awaited  the  giver  hour  by  hour, 


136  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

She  was  sailing  away  in  the  wild  March  night 
On  the  little  deck  of  the  sloop  Delight; 
Guarded  even  in  the  darkness  there 
By  the  wrathful  eyes  of  a  jealous  care. 

Three  weeks  after,  a  brig  bore  down 
Into  the  harbor  of  Newport  town, 
Towing  a  wreck,  —  't  was  the  sloop  Delight, 
Off  Hampton  rocks,  in  the  very  sight 

Of  the  land  she  sought,  she  and  her  crew 
And  all  on  board  of  her,  full  in  view 
Of  the  storm-bound  fishermen  over  the  bay, 
Went  to  their  doom  on  that  April  day. 

When  Rochambeau  heard  the  terrible  tale, 
He  muttered  a  prayer,  for  a  moment  grew  pale; 
Then  "Mon  Dieu,"  he  exclaimed,  "so  my  fine  romance 
From  beginning  to  end  is  a  rose  and  a  glance." 

Nora  Perry. 

THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT. 

HOW   strange  it  seems !     These   Hebrews  in  their 
graves, 

Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport  town, 
Silent  beside  the  never-silent  waves, 
At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and  down ! 

The  trees  are  white  with  dust,  that  o'er  their  sleep 
Wave  their  broad  curtains  in  the  south-wind's  breath, 

While  underneath  these  leafy  tents  they  keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 


NEWPORT.  137 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and  brown, 
That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial-place, 

Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  Law,  thrown  down 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain's  base. 

The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different  climes ; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 

With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  for  he  created  Death ! " 
The  mourners  said,  "  and  Death  is  rest  and  peace  " ; 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

"And  giveth  Life  that  nevermore  shall  cease.'* 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  Synagogue, 
No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence  break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets  spake. 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 
And  not  neglected;  for  a  hand  unseen, 

Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a  summer  rain, 

Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their  remembrance  green. 

How  came  they  here?    What  burst  of  Christian  hate,, 
What  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 

Drove  o'er  the  sea  —  that  desert  desolate  — 
These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind  ? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  obscure, 
Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,  in  mirk  and  mire; 


138  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of  fire. 

All  their  lives  long,  with  the  unleavened  bread 
And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 

The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed, 

And  slaked  its  thirst  with  Marah  of  their  tears. 

Anathema  maranatha !   was  the  cry 

That  rang  from  town  to  town,  from  street  to  street ; 
At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 

Was  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spumed  by  Christian  feet. 

Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked  with  them  through  the  world  where'er  they 

went; 
Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  the  sand, 

And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 

For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and  vast 
Of  patriarchs  and  of  prophets  rose  sublime, 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time. 

And  thus  forever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they  read, 

Spelling  it  backward,  like  a  Hebrew  book, 
Till  life  became  a  Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah !  what  once  has  been  shall  be  no  more ! 

The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 
Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not  restore, 

And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


NEWPORT.  139 


THE  GEAY  CLIFF  AT  NEWPORT. 

WHAT  strivest  thou  for,  O  thou  most  mighty  ocean, 
Rolling  thy  ceaseless  sweeping  surfs  ashore? 
Canst  thou  not  stay  that  restless,  wild  commotion? 

Must  that  low  murmur  moan  forevermore  ? 
Yet  thou  art  better  than  our  hearts,  though  yearning 

Still  for  some  unattained,  unknown  land ; 
Thou  still  art  constant,  evermore  returning, 

With  each  fresh  wind,  to  kiss  our  waiting  strand. 
O  heart !  if  restless,  like  the  yearning  ocean, 
Like  it  be  all  thy  waves,  of  one  emotion ! 

Whither,  with  canvas  wings,  0  ship,  art  sailing, — 

Homeward  or  outward  bound,  to  shore  or  sea? 
What  thought  within  thy  strong  sides  is  prevailing, — 

Hope  or  despair,  sorrow  or  careless  glee? 
Thou,  too,  art  like  our  hearts,  which  gayly  seeming, 

With  hope  sails  set  to  catch  each  freshening  breeze, 
In  truth  art  sad,  with  tears  and  trials  teeming, — 

Perhaps  to  sail  no  more  on  life's  wild  seas. 
O  heart !  while  sailing,  like  a  ship,  remember, 
Thou,  too,  mayst  founder  in  a  rough  December ! 

Why  your  white  arms,  ye  windmills,  are  ye  crossing 
In  sad  succession  to  the  evening  breeze, 

As  though  within  your  gray  old  heads  were  tossing 
Thoughts  of  fatigue  and  longings  after  ease  ?  — • 

But  ye  are  better  than  our  hearts,  for  grieving 
Over  your  cares  ye  work  your  destined  way, 


140  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

While  they,  their  solemn  duties  weakly  leaving, 

In  helpless  sorrow  weep  their  lives  away. 
0  heart !  if  like  those  hoary  giants  mourning, 
Why  not  be  taught  by  their  instructive  warning ! 

William  Croswell  Doane. 


THE  CLIFFS  AT  NEWPORT, 

0  NEWPORT !   chosen  sweetheart  of  the  sea, 
Wooed  by  the  waves  at  each  returning  tide; 
The  strong  rocks  guard  thee,  lest  thou  daintily 
Shouldst,  slipping  'twixt  their  crags,  flee  as  his  bride. 

0  waves !  that  beat  upon  a  hopeless  shore, 
That  ask  and  call,  and,  weeping,  turn  again, 

So  shall  you  rise  and  fall  forevermore, 

Nor  even  time  shall  bring  you  joy  for  pain. 

Within  the  silent  chamber  of  my  heart 

It  is  as  with  the  city  and  the  sea; 
For  Fate  is  strong,  and  holds  me  still  apart 

From  one  who  hopes,  and,  trusting,  waits  for  me. 

Ruth  Dana. 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 

SO  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship,  at  will, 
In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's  hill. 
When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what  cares  yon  good 

town 
For  the  Baptist  of  Wayland,  the  Quaker  of  Brown? 


NORRIDGEWOCK.  141 

And  this  green,  favored  island,  so  fresh  and  sea-blown, 
When  she  counts   up  the   worthies   her  annals    have 

known, 

Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gaugers  of  sect 
To  measure  her  love  and  mete  out  her  respect. 

Three  shades  at  this  moment  seem  walking  her  strand, 
Each  with  head  halo-crowned,  and   with  palms  in  his 

hand, — 

Wise  Berkeley,  grave  Hopkins,  and,  smiling  serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Chaiining  is  seen. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittler. 


Norridgewock,  Me. 

OLD  NORRIDGEWOCK. 

riS  is  a  quiet  old  town,  living  more  in  the  past 
than  the  present; 

Dreamily  flows  its  life,  like  its  dreamy,  beautiful  river. 
Grass  grows  green  in  its   streets,  the   streets  are  still 

and  deserted; 

Over  them  arch  the  elms,  the  gothic  roof  of  a  temple. 
Birds  are  the  only  choirs,  the  wind  is  a  deep-sounding 

organ, 
As  it  plays  on  the  branches  of  pines  hanging  over  the 

river. 
Moss  is  deep  on  thy  roofs,  0  Norridgewock !   old  are 

thy  houses  ! 


142  POEMS    OP   PLACES. 

Past  are  the  palmy  days  when  thy  stores  were    busy 

with  traffic, 
And  on  the  green  were  heard  the    merry  voices   of 

children. 
Rarely  now  the   dust  of  thy  street  is   disturbed  by  a 

carriage, 

And  a  stranger  passing  on  foot  is  regarded  with  wonder. 
But  thy  beauty  remains,  thy  wooded  hills  and  thy 

orchards, 

And  the  pastures  dotted  with  sheep  or  ruminant  cattle, 
And  thy  Kennebec,  unchanged  yet  constantly  changing, 
Varying  with  the  sky,  now  sombre,  now  gleefully 

laughing 
As  the  joyous   breeze   and  the   sunbeams   play  on  its 

waters  ; 
Now  reflecting  its  banks  and  the   old  oaks  bending 

above  it; 
Or  golden  lights  from  the  clouds,  -  when  the  wind  is 

still  and  the  sunset 
Paints  on  the  western  sky  the  glory  of  gold  and  of 

crimson. 

*  *  * 

Sunset  Hill  looks  down  on  the  village,  and  hither  the 

young  folks 
Thrice  in  a  summer  carry  their  baskets  and  lunch  on 

its  summit. 

There  is  a  lovely  view,  —  the  Kennebec  valley,  the  river 
Calm  as  a  windless  lake,  reflecting  its  banks  and  its 

bridges, 
Hidden  here,  and  here  in   sight,  till  it  reaches   Skow- 

,hegan. 


NORRIDGEWOCK.  143 

Under  us  lies  the  village,  but  lost  mid  its  elms  and 

its  maples. 
Watched  by  the  old  church  tower  and  the  court-house, 

long  since  deserted, 

And  in  the  west  are  the  mountains,  all  faint  and  blue 
in  the  distance. 

*  *  * 

Nathan  Has/cell  Dole. 


AT  NORRIDGEWOCK. 

TT1  IS  morning  over  Norridgewock,  — 

-L   On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer's  light-robed  angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With  pencil  dipped  in  sunbeams  there, — 
And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 
Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests,  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky,  — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness ! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its  dark  green  burthen  upward  heaves; 
The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 


144  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal,  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 

The  hectic  of  a  dying  year ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Northampton,  Mass. 

NORTHAMPTON. 

ERE  from  thy  calm  seclusion  parted, 
0  fairest  village  of  the  plain! 
The  thoughts  that  here  to  life  have  started 
Draw  me  to  Nature's  heart  again. 

The  tasselled  maize,  full  grain  or  clover, 
Far  o'er  the  level  meadow  grows, 

And  through  it,  like  a  wayward  rover, 
The  noble  river  gently  flows. 

Majestic  elms,  with  trunks  unshaken 
By  all  the  storms  an  age  can  bring, 

Trail  sprays  whose  rest  the  zephyrs  waken, 
Yet  lithesome  with  the  juice  of  spring. 

By  sportive  airs  the  foliage  lifted, 

Each  green  leaf  shows  its  white  below, 


NORTHAMPTON.  145 

As  foam  on  emerald  waves  is  drifted, 
Their  tints  alternate  come  and  go. 
*  *  * 

And  when  the  distant  mountain  ranges 
In  moonlight  or  blue  mist  are  clad, 

Oft  memory  all  the  landscape  changes, 
And  pensive  thoughts  are  blent  with  glad. 

Tor  then,  as  in  a  dream  Elysian, 
Val  d'Arno's  fair  and  loved  domain 

Seems,  to  my  rapt  yet  waking  vision, 
To  yield  familiar  charms  again. 

Save  that  for  dome  and  turret  hoary, 

Amid  the  central  valley  lies 
A  white  church-spire  unknown  to  story, 

And  smoke-wreaths  from  a  cottage  rise. 

On  Holyoke's  summit  woods  are  frowning, 

No  line  of  cypresses  we  see, 
Nor  convent  old  with  beauty  crowning 
The  heights  of  sweet  Fiesole. 
*  *  * 

Henry  Theodore  Tuckerman. 


HOLYOKE  VALLEY. 

HOW  many  years  have  made  their  nights, 
Northampton,  over  thee  and  me, 
Since  last  I  scaled  those  purple  heights 
That  guard  the  pathway  to  the  sea; 


146  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Or  climbed,  as  now,  the  topmost  crown 
Of  western  ridges,  whence  again 

I  see,  for  miles  beyond  the  town, 
That  sunlit  stream  divide  the  plain? 

There  still  the  giant  warders  stand 

And  watch  the  current's  downward  flow, 

And  northward  still,  with  threatening  hand, 
The  river  bends  his  ancient  bow. 

I  see  the  hazy  lowlands  meet 

The  sky,  and  count  each  shining  spire, 

From  those  which  sparkle  at  my  feet 
To  distant  steeples  tipt  with  fire. 

For  still,  old  town,  thou  art  the  same: 
The  redbreasts  sing  their  choral  tune, 

Within  thy  mantling  elms  aflame, 
As  in  that  other,  dearer  June, 

When  here  my  footsteps  entered  first, 
And  summer  perfect  beauty  wore, 

And  all  thy  charms  upon  me  burst, 
While  Life's  whole  journey  lay  before. 

Here  every  fragrant  walk  remains, 
Where  happy  maidens  come  and  go, 

And  students  saunter  in  the  lanes 
And  hum  the  songs  I  used  to  know. 

I  gaze,  yet  find  myself  alone, 
And  walk  with  solitary  feet: 


NORTHAMPTON.  147 

How  strange  these  wonted  ways  have  grown! 
Where  are  the  friends  I  used  to  meet? 

In  yonder  shaded  Academe 

The  rippling  metres  flow  to-day, 
But  other  boys  at  sunset  dream 

Of  love,  and  laurels  far  away; 

And  ah!  from  yonder  trellised  home, 
Less  sweet  the  faces  are  that  peer 

Than  those  of  old,  and  voices  come 
Less  musically  to  my  ear. 

Sigh  not,  ye  breezy  elms,  but  give 
The  murmur  of  my  sweetheart's  vows, 

When  Life  was  something  worth  to  live, 
And  Love  was  young  beneath  your  boughs ! 

Fade  beauty,  smiling  everywhere, 
That  can  from  year  to  year  outlast 

Those  charms  a  thousand  times  more  fair, 
And,  oh,  our  joys  so  quickly  past ! 

Or  smile  to  gladden  fresher  hearts 
Henceforth:  but  they  shall  yet  be  led, 

Revisiting  these  ancient  parts, 
Like  me  to  mourn  their  glory  fled. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


148  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Norwich,   Conn. 

THE  INLAND  CITY. 

/GUARDED  by  circling  streams  and  wooded  moun- 
VJT        tains, 

Like  sentinels  round  a  queen, 
Dotted  with  groves  and  musical  with  fountains, 

The  city  lies  serene. 

Not  far  away  the  Atlantic  tide  diverges, 

And,  up  the  southern  shore 
Of  gray  New  England,  rolls  in  shortened  surges, 

That  murmur  evermore. 

The  fairy  city !  not  for  frowning  castle 

Do  I  extol  her  name, 
Not  for  the  gardens  and  the  domes  palatial 

Of  oriental  fame; 

Yet  if  there  be  one  man  who  will  not  rally, 

One  man,  who  sayeth  not 
That  of  all  cities  in  the  Eastern  valley 

Ours  is  the  fairest  spot; 

Then  let  him  roam  beneath  those  elms  gigantic, 

Or  idly  wander  where 
Shetucket  flows  meandering,  where  Yantic 

Leaps  through  the  cloven  air; 

Gleaming  from  rock  to  rock  with  sunlit  motion, 
Then  slumbering  in  the  cove; 


NORWICH.  149 

So  sinks  the  soul,  from  Passion's  wild  devotion, 
To  tlie  deep  calm  of  Love. 

And  journey  with  me  to  the  village  olden, 

Among  whose  devious  ways 
Are  mossy  mansions,  rich  with  legends  golden 

Of  early  forest  days; 

Elysian  time !  when,  by  the  rippling  water, 

Or  in  the  woodland  groves, 
The  Indian  warrior  and  the  Sachem's  daughter 

Whispered  their  artless  loves; 

Legends  of  fords,  where  Uncas  made  his  transit, 

Fierce  for  the  border  war, 
And  drove  all  day  the  alien  Narragansett 

Back  to  his  haunts  afar; 

Tales  of  the  after-time,  when  scant  and  humble 

Grew  the  Mohegan  band, 
And  Tracy,  Griswold,  Huntington,  and  Trumbull 

Were  judges  in  the  land. 

So  let  the  caviller  feast  on  old  tradition, 

And  then  at  sunset  climb 
Up  yon  green  hill,  where  on  his  broadened  vision 

May  burst  the  view  sublime ! 

The  city  spires,  with  stately  power  impelling 

The  soul  to  look  above, 
And  peaceful  homes,  in  many  a  rural  dwelling, 

Lit  up  with  flames  of  love ;  — 


ISO  POEMS   OP   PLACES. 

And  then  confess,  nor  longer  idly  dally, 

While  sinks  the  lingering  sun, 
That  of  all  cities  in  the  Eastern  valley 
Ours  is  the  fairest  one. 

*  *  * 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


Ossipee,  the  Lake,  N.  H. 

ON  THE  HILLS. 

FOR  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hills, 
And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining ; 
And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 
And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 

At  last  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through  Sandwich  Notch  the  west-wind  sang 

Good-morrow  to  the  cotter; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake,  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 


OTTER,    THE    RIVER.  151 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky, 

The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness; 
And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 

Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 

With  gaps  of  brightness  riven, — 
How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 

The  purple  lights  of  heaven; 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 

Erom  far  celestial  fountains ; 
The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Otter,  the  River,    Vt. 

THE  RIVER  OTTER. 

A  HUNDRED  times  the  Summer's  fragrant  blooms 
Have  laden  all  the  air  with  sweet  perfumes, — 
A  hundred  times  along  the  mountain-side 
Autumn  has  flung  his  crimson  banners  wide,  — 
A  hundred  times  has  kindly  Winter  spread 
His  snowy  mantle  o'er  the  violet's  bed, — 
A  hundred  times  has  Earth  rejoiced  to  hear 
The  Spring's  light  footsteps  in  the  forest  sere, 
Since  on  yon  grassy  knoll  the  quick,  sharp  stroke 
Of  the  young  woodman's  axe  the  silence  broke. 


152  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Not  then  did  these  encircling  hills  look  down 
On  quaint  old  farmhouse  or  on  steepled  town. 
No  church-spires  pointed  to  the  arching  skies ; 
No  wandering  lovers  saw  the  moon  arise ; 
No  childish  laughter  mingled  with  the  song 
Of  the  fair  Otter,  as  it  flowed  along 
As  brightly  then  as  now.     Ah  !  little  recked 
The  joyous  river,  when  the  sunshine  flecked 
Its  dancing  wavelets,  that  no  human  eye 
Gave  it  glad  welcome  as  it  frolicked  by  ! 
The  long,  uncounted  years  had  come  and  flown, 
And  it  had  still  swept  on,  unseen,  unknown, 
Biding  its  time.     No  minstrel  sang  its  praise, 
No  poet  named  it  in  immortal  lays. 
It  played  no  part  in  legendary  lore, 

And  young  Romance  knew  not  its  winding  shore. 

*  *  * 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 


Parker  Biver,   Mass. 

PARKER  RIYER. 

WHERE    THE    FIRST     SETTLERS     OF     NEWBURY     LANDED     IN 
SEPTEMBER,    1634. 

npHROUGH  broad  gleaming  meadows  of  billowy  grass, 
-L    That  forms  at  its  outlet  a  long  narrow  pass, 

The  river  comes  down 
By  farms  whose  high  tillage  gives  note  to  the  town, 


PARKER    RIVER.  153 

As  sparkling  and  bright 
As  it  gladdened  the  sight 

Of  the  fathers  who  first  found  its  beautiful  shore, 
And  felt  here  was  home,  —  they  need  wander  no  more. 

When  the  swallows  were  gathering  in  flocks  for  their 

flight, 
As  if  conscious  some  foe  of  their  kind  were  in  sight, 

They  pushed  up  the  stream 
In  the  low  level  rays  of  the  sun's  lingering  beam, 

That  lit  all  below 

With  a  magical  glow, 

That  brought  by  resemblance  old  England  to  mind, 
Whose  shores  they  had  left  with  such  heart-ache  behind. 

The  golden-rod  waved  its  bright  plumes  from  the  bank, 
As  if  all  the  sunshine  of  summer  it  drank, 

And  grapes  full  and  fair 
Their  wild  native  fragrance  flung  out  on  the  air; 

And  asters,  and  all 

The  gay  flowerets  of  fall 

That  lengthen  the  season's  long  dreamy  delight, 
Were  crowding  the  woodside  their  beauty  made  bright. 

In  the  soft  sunny  days  of  September  they  came, 
When  the  trees  here  and  there  were  alight  with  the 
flame 

That  betokens  decay 
And  the  passing  of  summer  in  glory  away; 

As  if  the  great  Cause 

Of  Nature's  grand  laws 


154  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Had  set  liis  red  signet  that  here  should  be  stayed 
The  tide  of  the  year  in  its  pomp  and  parade. 

And  now,  as  I  stand  on  this  broad  open  height, 
And  take  in  the  view  with  enraptured  delight, 

I  feel  as  they  felt 

Who  in  fervor  of  soul  by  these  bright  waters  knelt, 
That  here  I  could  rest 
In  the  consciousness  blest 
That  Nature  has  given  all  heart,  hand,  or  eye 
Could  crave  for  contentment  that  earth  can  supply;  — 

The  limitless  ocean  that  stretches  away 
Beyond  the  bright  islets  that  light  up  the  bay, 

The  murmurous  roar 
Of  the  surf  breaking  in  on  the  long  line  of  shore, 

And  rivers  that  run 

Like  gold  in  the  sun, 

And  broad  sunny  hillsides  and  bright  breezy  groves, 
And  all  one  instinctively  longs  for  and  loves. 

Trees  bending  with  fruit  touched  with  tints  of  the  morn, 
Fields  soft  with  the  late  springing  verdure  unshorn,, 

And  glimpses  so  fair 

Of  city  and  river  and  sails  here  and  there, 
And  cottages  white 
On  the  beach  by  the  light, — 
The  picturesque  roadside,  and  vistas  that  seem 
Like  openings  to  fairy-land  seen  but  in  dream. 

*  *  * 

Adieu,  gentle  river!  though  long  I  may  wait 
Ere  here  I  shall  stand  at  the  day's  golden  gate, 


PAWTUCKET    FALLS.  155 

And  take  in  the  view 

That  brings  back  the  past  as  so  old  and  so  new; 
Yet  memory  will  still 
Haunt  this  storied  old  hill 

Whence  I  see  as  in  vision  the  prospect  unrolled 
In  all  the  bright  splendor  of  purple  and  gold. 

Henry  Henderson. 


Pawtucket  Falls,  R.  I. 

PAWTUCKET  FALLS. 

AT  last  a  sound,  like  murmurs  from  the  shore, 
Of  far-off  ocean  when  the  storm  is  bound, 
Grows  on  his  ear,  and  still  increases  more 
As  he  advances,  till  the  woods  resound, 
And  seem  to  tremble  with  the  constant  roar 

Of  many  waters.     Ay,  the  very  ground 
Begins  to  shake,  when  'neath  the  arching  trees, 
Bright  glimmering,  and  fast  gliding  down,  he  sees 

Broad  rushing  waters, — to  their  dizzy  steep 

Hither  they  come ;  thence,  glimmering  far  as  sight, 

Up  'twixt  the  groves  can  trace  their  coming  sweep ; 
Here,  from  the  precipice  all  frothy  white, 

Uttering  an  earthquake  in  their  headlong  leap, 
And  flinging  sunbows  o'er  their  showery  flight, 

And  bursting  wild,  —  down,  down,  all  foam  they  go 

To  the  dark  gulf,  and  smoke  and  boil  below. 


156  POEMS    OF    PLAGES. 

Thence,  hurrying  onward  through  the  narrow  bound 
Of  banks  precipitous,  they  murmuring  go, 

Till  by  the  jutting  cliffs  half  wheeling  round, 
They  leave  the  view  among  the  hills  below. 

There  paused  our  father,  ravished  with  the  sound 
Of  the  wild  waters,  and  their  rapid  flow; 

And  there,  all  lonely,  joyed  that  he  had  found 

Thy  Palls,  Pawtucket,  and  where  Scekonk  wound. 

Job  Durfee. 


Pemaquid,  Me. 

GOD'S  ACRE  AT  OLD  PEMAQUID. 

WHERE  ocean  breezes  sweep  across  the  restless  deep 
It  stands,  with  headstones  quaint  with  sculpture 

rude, 

Its  green  turf  thickly  sown  with  dust  of  lives  unknown, 
Like  withered  leaves  on  autumn  pathway  strewed. 

Willow  nor  cypress  bough  shadow  the  dead  below, 
Nor  mournful  yew,  by  summer's  soft  breath  stirred; 
The  dawn,  and  twilight's  fall,  never  made  musical 
By  carol  clear  of  some  sweet-throated  bird. 

Not  from  the  sunny  earth,  her  tones  of  sylvan  mirth, 

Her  flowery  meads,  and  plains  of  waving  corn, 

But  from  the  treacherous  waves,  their  rocks  and  sparry 

caves, 
Unto  their  rest  were  these  sad  sleepers  borne. 


PEMIGEWASSET,    THE    RIVER.  157 

Perchance  they  Lad  their  home  far  from  the  crested  foam, 
And  blue  seas  rippling  o'er  the  pink-lipped  shells. 
Some  green  vale  far  away,  where   sweet-voiced  waters 

play, 
And  the  bee  murmurs  in  the  wild-flower's  bells. 

0  churchyard  drear  and  lone !  haunted  by  voices  gone 
And  silent  feet,  and  lives  like  rose  leaves  shed, 
Thy  dust  shall  yet  arise,  when  from  our  earthly  skies 
Mists  fade  away  and  seas  give  up  their  dead. 

Anonymous. 


Pemigewasset,  the  River,  N.  H. 

MY  MOUNTAIN. 

I  SHUT  my  eyes  in  the  snow-fall 
And  dream  a  dream  of  the  hills. 
The  sweep  of  a  host  of  mountains, 
The  flash  of  a  hundred  rills, 

For  a  moment  they  crowd  my  vision; 

Then,  moving  in  troops  along, 
They  leave  me  one  still  mountain-picture, 

The  murmur  of  one  river's  song. 

'Tis  the  musical  Pemigewasset, 
That  sings  to  the  hemlock-trees 

Of  the  pines  on  the  Profile  Mountain, 
Of  the  stony  Face  that  sees, 


158  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Far  down  in  the  vast  rock-hollows 

The  waterfall  of  the  Flume, 
The  blithe  cascade  of  the  Basin, 

And  the  deep  Pool's  lonely  gloom. 

All  night,  from  the  cottage-window 

I  can  hear  the  river's  tune; 
But  the  hushed  air  gives  no  answer 

Save  the  hemlocks'  sullen  rune. 

A  lamb's  bleat  breaks  through  the  stillness, 
And  into  the  heart  of  night.  — 

Afar  and  around,  the  mountains, 
Veiled  watchers,  expect  the  light. 

Then  up  comes  the  radiant  morning 
To  smile  on  their  vigils  grand; 

Still  muffled  in  cloudy  mantles 
Do  their  stately  ranges  stand? 

It  is  not  the  lofty  Haystacks 

Piled  up  by  the  great  Notch-Gate, 

Nor  the  glow  of  the  Cannon  Mountain, 
That  the  Dawn  and  I  await,    . 

To  loom  out  of  northern  vapors; 

But  a  shadow,  a  pencilled  line, 
That  grows  to  an  edge  of  opal 

Where  earth-light  and  heaven-light  shine. 

Now  rose-tints  bloom  from  the  purple; 
Now  the  blue  climbs  over  the  green; 


PEMIGEWASSET,   THE   RIVER.  159 

Now,  bright  in  its  bath  of  sunshine, 
The  whole  grand  Shape  is  seen. 

Is  it  one,  or  unnumbered  summits, — 

The  Vision  so  high,  so  *fair, 
Hanging  over  the  singing  River 

In  the  magical  depths  of  air? 

Ask  not  the  name  of  my  mountain ! 

Let  it  rise  in  its  grandeur  lone; 
Be  it  one  of  a  mighty  thousand, 

Or  a  thousand  blent  in  one. 

Would  a  name  evoke  new  splendor 
Erom  its  wrapping  and  folds  of  light, 

Or  a  line  of  the  weird  rock-writing 
Make  plainer  tj>  mortal  sight? 

You  have  lived  and  learnt  this  marvel: 

That  the  holiest  joy  that  came 
From  its  beautiful  heaven  to  bless  you, 

Nor  needed  nor  found  a  name. 

Enough,  on  the  brink  of  the  river 

Looking  up  and  away,  to  know 
That  the  Hill  loves  the  Pemigewasset. 

And  broods  o'er  its  murmurous  flow. 

Perhaps,  if  the  Campton  meadows 

Should  attract  your  pilgrim  feet 
Up  the  summer  road  to  the  mountains, 

You  may  chance  my  dream  to  meet :  — 


160  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Either  mine,  or  one  more  wondrous. 

Or  perhaps  you  will  look,  and  say 
You  behold  only  rocks  and  sunshine, 

Be  it  dying  or  birth  of  day. 

Though  you  find  but  the  stones  that  build  it, 
I  shall  see  through  the  snow-fall  still, 

Hanging  over  the  Pemigewasset, 
My  glorified,  dream-crowned  Hill. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


Penikese,  the  Island,  Mass. 

THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ. 

ON  the  isle  of  Penikese, 
Ringed  about  by  sapphire  seas, 
Tanned  by  breezes  salt  and  cool, 
Stood  the  Master  with  his  school. 
Over  sails  that  not  in  vain 
Wooed  the  west-wind's  steady  strain, 
Line  of  coast  that  low  and  far 
Stretched  its  undulating  bar, 
Wings  aslant  along  the  rim 
Of  the  waves  they  stooped  to  skim, 
Rock  and  isle  and  glistening  bay, 
Fell  the  beautiful  white  day. 

Said  the  Master  to  the  youth : 
"We  have  oome  in  search  of  truth, 


PENIKESE,    THE    ISLAND.  161 

Trying  with  uncertain  key 

Door  by  door  of  mystery; 

We  are  reaching,  through  His  laws, 

To  the  garment -hem  of  Cause, 

Him,  the  endless,  unbegun, 

The  Unnamable,  the  One 

Light  of  all  our  light  the  Source, 

Life  of  life,  and  Force  of  force. 

As  with  fingers  of  the  blind, 

We  are  groping  here  to  find 

What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 

Of  the  Unseen  in  the  Seen, 

What  the  Thought  which  underlies 

Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 

What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 

Blight  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death. 

By  past  efforts  unavailing, 

Doubt  and  error,  loss  and  failing, 

Of  our  weakness  made  aware, 

On  the  threshold  of  our  task 

Let  us  light  and  guidance  ask, 

Let  us  pause  in  silent  prayer !  " 

Then  the  Master  in  his  place 
Bowed  his  head  a  little  space, 
And  the  leaves  by  soft  airs  stirred, 
Lapse  of  wave  and  cry  of  bird 
Left  the  solemn  hush  unbroken 
Of  that  wordless  prayer  unspoken, 
While  its  wish,  on  earth  unsaid, 
Rose  to  heaven  interpreted. 


162  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

As,  in  life's  best  hours,  .we  hear 
By  the  spirit's  finer  ear 
His  low  voice  within  us,  thus 
The  All-Father  heareth  us  ; 
And  his  holy  ear  we  pain 
"With  our  noisy  words  and  vain. 
Not  for  Him  our  violence 
Storming  at  the  gates  of  sense, 
His  the  primal  language,  Ms 
The  eternal  silences ! 

Even  the  careless  heart  was  moved, 
And  the  doubting  gave  assent, 
With  a  gesture  reverent, 
To  the  Master  well-beloved. 
As  thin  mists  are  glorified 
By  the  light  they  cannot  hide, 
All  who  gazed  upon  him  saw, 
Through  its  veil  of  tender  awe, 
How  his  face  was  still  uplit 
By  the  old  sweet  look  of  it, 
Hopeful,  trustful,  full  of  cheer, 
And  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 
Who  the  secret  may  declare 
Of  that  brief,  unuttered  prayer  ? 
Did  the  shade  before  him  come 
Of  the  inevitable  doom, 
Of  the  end  of  earth  so  near, 
'And  Eternity's  new  year? 

In  the  lap  of  sheltering  seas 
Rests  the  isle  of  Penikese; 


PENIK.ESE,    THE    ISLAND.  163 

But  the  lord  of  the  domain 
Comes  not  to  his  own  again: 
Where  the  eyes  that  follow  fail, 
On  a  vaster  sea  his  sail 
Drifts  beyond  our  beck  and  hail. 
Other  lips  within  its  bouud 
Shall  the  laws  of  life  expound; 
Other  eyes  from  rock  and  shell 
Read  the  world's  old  riddles  well: 
But  when  breezes  light  and  bland 
Blow  from  Summer's  blossomed  land, 
When  the  air  is  glad  with  wings, 
And  the  blithe  song-sparrow  sings, 
Many  an  eye  with  his  still  face 
Shall  the  living  ones  displace, 
Many  an  ear  the  word  shall  seek 
He  alone  could  fitly  speak. 
And  one  name  forevermore 
Shall  be  uttered  o'er  and  o'er 
By  the  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
By  the  curlew's  whistle  sent 
Down  the  cool,  sea-scented  air; 
In  all  voices  known  to  her, 
Nature  owns  her  worshipper, 
Half  in  triumph,  half  lament. 
Thither  Love  shall  tearful  turn, 
Friendship  pause  uncovered  there, 
And  the  wisest  reverence  learn 
From  the  Master's  silent  prayer. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


164  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


PENIKESE, 

NOT  vainly  Homer  saw  it  in  a  dream, 
Circling  the  world  and  bounding  continents ; 
Our  shore  is  girdlett  by  an  Ocean  Stream, 

Which  nearest  to  the  Vineyard  Sound  indents. 

There  fringing  the  azure  deep  are  happy  isles, 
Which  swim  in  warmth  of  Equatorial  seas, 

And  gladden  in  the  gracious  Summer's  smiles, — 
The  smallest,  nearest  us  is  Penikese. 

A  string  of  pearls  they  lie  on  Ocean's  breast, 
Steeped  in  a  languor  brought  them  from  afar, 

And  drowse  through  summer  days  in  silent  rest, 
Kissed  by  mild  waves  and  loved  of  moon  and  star. 

Once  the  shy  Indian  saw  his  shadow  shake 
Across  the  wave,  as  he  withdrew  his  spear 

!Yom  the  struck  bass,  or  heard  within  the  brake 
The  tender  grass  torn  by  the  feeding  deer. 

Those  dumb,  waste  centuries  of  loss  are  o'er, 
A  better,  nobler  day  to  them  succeeds : 

Now  Science  rears  her  watch-tower  by  the  shore, 
Round  it  are  scholars  whom  a  teacher  leads. 

The  light  within  the  watch-tower  is  his  mind, 
Cosmic,  with  forms  of  life  which  end  in  man; 

There  all  the  tribes  their  place  in  order  find, 
As  if  he  read  the  thought  of  God's  own  plan. 


PEXOBSCOT,    THE    BAY.  165 

Oh  !  happy  ones  who  read  the  book  of  life, 
Till  ye  through  him  in  wisdom  daily  grow, 

To  find  how  far  above  Earth's  barren  strife 
Is  the  soul's  hunger  —  toil  divine  —  to  know. 

What  pastoral  lives  of  true  simplicity  ! 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking,  with  the  bond 
Between  them  of  a  lofty  sympathy, 

Whose  circlet  rings  this  world  and  worlds  beyond. 

Hail !  generous  heart  which  gave  its  home  of  years  ! 

Hail,  too,  ye  youth  who  lean  on  such  a  guide ! 
Long  may  the  shrine  which  now  glad  Science  rears 

Shine  like  a  load-star  o'er  the  waters  wide. 

Thomas  Gold  Appleton. 


Penobscot,  the  Bay,  Me. 

PENOBSCOT  BAY. 

FAR  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay ; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below ; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 
Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 
Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby, — 


166  fOEMS   OF   PLACES, 

With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is  borne 
The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn,, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  them  flow. 
The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 
Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun. 
Watching  the  huskers,  with  a  smile 
For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile; 
And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 

A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie, — 

Gems  of  the  waters  !  — •  with  each  hue 

Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 

Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 
Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 

And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 
A  moment  seen,  —  a  moment  lost,  — 
Changing  and  blent,  confused  and  tossed, 
The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed 

Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 

Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 
And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 

As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 
Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 


PENOBSCOT,    THE    BAY.  16? 

There  sleep  Placentia's  group,  —  and  there 
Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer; 
Arid  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  between, 
Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book. 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air,  — 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old; 
And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and  thin, 
Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin: 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 
Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 

Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

John  Greenleaf  Wkittier. 


168  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Penobscot,  the  River,  Me. 

NOREMBEGA. 

NOREMBEGA,  or  Norimbegue,  is  the  name  given  by  early  French  fisher- 
men and  explorers  to  a  fabulous  country  southwest  of  Cape  Breton,  first 
discovered  by  Verrazzani  in  1524.  It  was  supposed  to  have  a  magnificent 
city  of  the  same  name  on  a  great  river,  probably  the  Penobscot.  The  site 
of  this  barbaric  city  is  laid  down  on  a  map  published  at  Antwerp  in  1570. 
In  1604  Champlain  sailed  in  search  of  the  Northern  Eldorado,  twenty-two 
leagues  up  the  Penobscot  from  the  Isle  Haute.  He  supposed  the  river 
to  be  that  of  Norembega,  but  wisely  came  to  the  conclusion  that  those 
travellers  who  told  of  the  great  city  had  never  seen  it.  He  saw  no  evi- 
dences of  anything  like  civilization,  but  mentions  the  finding  of  a  cross, 
very  old  and  mossy,  in  the  woods. 

THE  winding  way  the  serpent  takes 
The  mystic  water  took, 
Prom  where,  to  count  its  beaded  lakes, 
The  forest  sped  its  brook. 

A  narrow  space  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

Tor  sun  or  stars  to  fall, 
While  evermore,  behind,  before, 

Closed  in  the  forest  wall. 

The  dim  wood  hiding  underneath 

Wan  flowers  without  a  name ; 
Life  tangled  with  decay  and  death, 

League  after  league  the  same. 

Unbroken  over  swamp  and  hill 

The  rounding  shadow  lay, 
Save  where  the  river  cut  at  will 

A  pathway  to  the  day. 


PENOBSCOT,    THE    RIVER.  169 

Beside  that  track  of  air  and  light, 

Weak  as  a  child  unwearied, 
At  shut  of  day  a  Christian  knight 

Upon  his  henchman  leaned. 

The  embers  of  the  sunset's  fires 

Along  the  clouds  burned  down; 
"I  see,"  he  said,  "the  domes  and  spires 

Of  Norembega  town." 

"  Alack  !   the  domes,  0  master  mine, 

Are  golden  clouds  on  high; 
Yon  spire  is  but  the  branchless  pine 

That  cuts  the  evening  sky." 

"Oh  hush  and  hark!   What  sounds  are  these 

But  chants  and  holy  hymns?" 
"Thou  hear'st  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees 

Through  all  their  leafy  limbs." 

"Is  it  a  chapel  bell  that  fills 

The  air  with  its  low  tone  ?  " 
"Thou  hear'st  the  tinkle  of  the  rills, 

The  insect's  vesper  drone." 

"The  Christ  be  praised!  — He  sets  for  me 

A  blessed  cross  in  sight !  " 
"  Now,  nay,  't  is  but  yon  blasted  tree 

With  two  gaunt  arms  outright ! " 

"Be  it  wind  so  sad  or  tree  so  stark, 
It  mattereth  not,  my  knave ; 


170  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Methinks  to  funeral  hymns  I  hark, 
The  cross  is  for  my  grave ! 

"  My  life  is  sped ;   I  shall  not  see 

My  home-set  sails  again; 
The  sweetest  eyes  of  Normandie 

Shall  watch  for  me  in  vain. 

"Yet  onward  still  to  ear  and  eye 

The  baffling  marvel  calls; 
I  fain  would  look  before  I  die 

On  Norembega's  walls. 

"So,  haply,  it  shall  be  thy  part 

At  Christian  feet  to  lay 
The  mystery  of  the  desert's  heart 

My  dead  hand  plucked  away. 

"Leave  me  an  hour  of  rest;   go  thou 
And  look  from  yonder  heights ; 

Perchance  the  valley  even  now 
Is  starred  with  city  lights." 

The  henchman  climbed  the  nearest  hill, 

He  saw  nor  tower  nor  town, 
But  through  the  drear  woods,  lone  and  still, 

The  river  rolling  down. 

He  heard  the  stealthy  feet  of  things 
Whose  shapes  he  could  not  see, 

A  nutter  as  of  evil  wings, 
The  fall  of  a  dead  tree. 


PENOBSCOT,    THE    RIVER.  171 

The  pines  stood  black  against  the  moon, 

A  sword  of  fire  beyond; 
He  heard  the  wolf  howl,  and  the  loon 

Laugh  from  his  reedy  pond. 

He  turned  him  back :   "0  master  dear, 

We  are  but  men  misled; 
And  thou  hast  sought  a  city  here 

To  find  a  grave  instead." 

"As  God  shall  will!   what  matters  where 

A  true  man's  cross  may  stand, 
So  Heaven  be  o'er  it  here  as  there 

In  pleasant  Norman  land? 

"These  woods,  perchance,  no  secret  hide 

Of  lordly  tower  and  hall; 
Yon  river  in  its  wanderings  wide 

Has  washed  no  city  wall; 

"Yet  mirrored  in  the  sullen  stream 

The  holy  stars  are  given: 
Is  Norembega,  then,  a  dream 

Whose  waking  is  in  Heaven? 

"No  builded  wonder  of  these  lands 

My  weary  eyes  shall  see ; 
A  city  never  made  with  hands 

Alone  awaiteth  me  — 

"'Urbs  Syon  mystica' ;  I  see 
Its  mansions  passing  fair, 


172  POEMS    OP    PLACES. 

'  Condita  ccelo ' ;  let  me  be, 
Dear  Lord,  a  dweller  there ! " 

Above  the  dying  exile  hung 

The  vision  of  the  bard, 
As  faltered  on  his  failing  tongue 

The  song  of  good  Bernard. 

The  henchman  dug  at  dawn  a  grave 

Beneath  the  hemlocks  brown, 
And  to  the  desert's  keeping  gave  * 

The  lord  of  fief  and  town. 

Years  after,  when  the  Sieur  Champlain 

Sailed  up  the  unknown  stream, 
And  Norembega  proved  again 

A  shadow  and  a  dream, 

He  found  the  Norman's  nameless  grave 

Within  the  hemlock's  shade, 
And,  stretching  wide  its  arms  to  save, 

The  sign  that  God  had  made, 

The  cross-boughed  tree  that  marked  the  spot 

And  made  it  holy  ground : 
He  needs  the  earthly  city  not 

Who  hath  the  heavenly  found. 

John  GreenJeaf  Whittier. 


PENOBSCOT,    THE    KIVEB,  173 


THE  PHANTOM  CITY. 

MIDSUMMER'S  crimson  moon, 
Above  the  liills  like  some  night-opening  rose, 
Uplifted,  pours  its  beauty  down  the  vale 
Where  broad  Penobscot  flows. 

*  *  * 

And  I  remember  now 

That  this  is  haunted  ground.     In  ages  past 
Here  stood  the  storied  Norembega's  walls 
Magnificent  and  vast. 

The  streets  were  ivory  paved, 

The  stately  walls  were  built  of  golden  ore, 

Its  domes  outshone  the  sunset,  and  full  boughs 

Hesperian  fruitage  bore. 

And  up  this  winding  flood 
Has  wandered  many  a  sea-tossed  dating  bark, 
While  eager  eyes  have  scanned  the  rugged  shore, 
Or  pierced  the  wildwood  dark. 

But  watched  in  vain;  afar 
They  saw  the  spires  gleam  golden  on  the  sky, 
The  distant  drum-beat  heard,  or  bugle-note 
Wound  wildly,  fitfully. 

Banners  of  strange  device 

Beckoned  from  distant  heights,  yet  as  the  stream 

Narrowed  among  the  hills,  the  city  fled 

A  mystery,  —  or  a  dream. 


174  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

In  the  deep  forest  hid 
Like  the  enchanted  princess  of  romance, 
Wooing  an  endless  search,  yet  still  secure 
In  her  unbroken  trance. 

0  city  of  the  Past ! 

No  mirage  of  the  wilderness  wert  thou ! 
Though  yet  unfreed  from  the  mysterious  spell, 

1  deem  thee  slumbering  now. 

Perhaps  invisible  feet, 

White-sandalled,  pass  amid  the  moonbeams  pale; 
Yon  shadowy  wave  may  be  some  lordly  barge 
Drifting  with  phantom  sail. 

The  legend  was  not  all 
A  myth,  it  was  a  prophecy  as  well; 
In  Norembega's  cloud-rapt  palaces 
The  living  yet  shall  dwell. 

Fed  by  its  hundred  lakes, 
Here  shall  the  river  run  o'er  golden  sands ! 
These  hills  in  burnished  tower  and  temple  shine 
Beneath  the  Builder's  hands. 

Where  tarries  still  the  hour 

When  the  true  knight  shall  the  enchantment  break  ? 

Unveil  the  peerless  city  of  the  East, 

The  charmed  princess  wake  ? 

Till  then,  O  river !  tell 

To  none  but  dreaming  bards  the  future's  boon! 

Till  then,  guard  thou  the  mystery  of  the  vale, 

Midsummer  midnight  moon ! 

Frances  L.  Mace. 


PISCATAQUA,    THE   KIVER.  175 

Piscataqua,  the  Ewer,  N.  H. 

PISCATAQUA  RIVER, 

THOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest. 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast! 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 

And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 
Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 

Like  the  red  harbor-buoy; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 

And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires ; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 

From  steeples  sum  and  white, 
And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 

The  Beacon's  orange  light. 


176  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

0  River  !  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods,  and  fields  of  com, 

Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn; 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crags  where  I  am  known! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


Pittsfield,    Mass. 

THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, — 
"  Eorever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 


PITTSFIELD.  177 

"With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  ! " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  1 " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,— 

"  Forever  —  never  ! " 

Never  —  forever ! " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed ; 


178  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

0  precious  hours !   O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold. 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding-night; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
*Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever ! " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  " 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 

Never  —  forever  ! " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly, — 

"  Forever  —  never  ! 

Never  —  forever  !  " 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


PLUM    ISLAND.  179 

Plum  Island,  Mass. 

INSIDE  PLUM  ISLAND. 

WE  floated  in  the  idle  breeze, 
With  all  our  sails  a-shiver; 
The  shining  tide  came  softly  through, 
And  filled  Plum  Island  River. 

The  shining  tide  stole  softly  up 

Across  the  wide  green  splendor, 
Creek  swelling  creek  till  all  in  one 

The  marshes  made  surrender. 

And  clear  the  flood  of  silver  swung 

Between  the  brimming  edges, 
And  now  the  depths  were  dark,  and  now 

The  boat  slid  o'er  the  sedges. 

And  here  a  yellow  sand-spit  foamed 

Amid  the  great  sea  meadows, 
And  here  the  slumberous  waters  gloomed 

Lucid  in  emerald  shadows. 

While,  in  their  friendly  multitude 

Encamped  along  our  quarter, 
The  host  of  hay-cocks  seemed  to  float 

With  doubles  in  the  water. 

Around  the  sunny  distance  rose 
A  blue  and  hazy  highland, 


180  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  winding  down  our  winding  way 
The  sand-hills  of  Plum  Island,  — 

The  windy  dunes  that  hid  the  sea 

Tor  many  a  dreary  acre, 
And  muffled  all  its  thundering  fall 

Along  the  wild  South  Breaker. 

"We  crept  by  Oldtown's  marshy  mouth, 

By  reedy  Rowley  drifted, 
But  far  away  the  Ipswich  bar 

Its  white  caps  tossed  and  shifted. 

Sometimes  we  heard  a  bittern  boom, 
Sometimes  a  piping  plover, 

Sometimes  there  came  the  lonesome  cry 
Of  white  gulls  flying  over. 

Sometimes,  a  sudden  fount  of  light, 
A  sturgeon  splashed,  and  fleeting 

Behind  the  sheltering  thatch  we  heard 
Oars  in  the  rowlocks  beating. 

But  all  the  rest  was  silence,  save 
The  rippling  in  the  rushes, 

The  gentle  gale  that  struck  the  sail 
In  fitful  swells  and  gushes. 

Silence  and  summer  and  the  sun, 

Waking  a  wizard  legion, 
Wove  as  we  went  their  ancient  spells 

In  this  enchanted  region. 


PLUM    ISLAND.  181 

No  spectral  care  could  part  the  veil 

Of  mist  and  sunbeams  shredded, 
That  everywhere  behind  us  closed 

The  labyrinth  we  threaded. 

Beneath  our  keel  the  great  sky  arched 

Its  liquid  light  and  azure; 
We  swung  between  two  heavens,  ensphered, 

Within  their  charmed  embrasure. 

Deep  in  that  watery  firmament, 

With  nickering  lustres  splendid, 
Poised  in  his  perfect  flight,  we  saw 

The  painted  hawk  suspended, 

And  there,  the  while  the  boat-side  leaned, 

With  youth  and  laughter  laden, 
We  saw  the  red  fin  of  the  perch, 

We  saw  the  swift  manhaden. 

Outside,  the  hollow  sea  might  cry, 

The  wailing  wind  give  warning; 
No  whisper  saddened  us,  shut  in 

With  sunshine  and  the  morning. 

Oh,  far,  far  off  the  weary  world 

With  all  its  tumult  waited, 
Forever  here  with  drooping  sails 

Would  we  have  hung  belated ! 

Yet,  when  the  flaw  came  ruffling  down, 
And  round  us  curled  and  sallied, 


182  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

We  skimmed  with  bubbles  on  our  track, 
As  glad  as  when  we  dallied. 

Broadly  the  bare  brown  Hundreds  rose, 
The  herds  their  hollows  keeping, 

And  clouds  of  wings  about  her  mast 
Prom  Swallowbanks  were  sweeping. 

While  evermore  the  Bluff  before 
Grew  greenly  on  our  vision, 

Lifting  beneath  its  waving  boughs 
Its  grassy  slopes  Elysian. 

There,  all  day  long,  the  summer  sea 
Creams  murmuring  up  the  shingle; 

There,  all  day  long,  the  airs  of  earth 
With  airs  of  heaven  mingle. 

Singing  we  went  our  happy  way, 
Singing  old  songs,  nor  noted 

Another  voice  that  with  us  sang, 
As  wing  and  wing  we  floated. 

Till  hushed,  we  listened,  while  the  air 
With  music  still  was  beating, 

Voice  answering  tuneful  voice,  again 
The  words  we  sang  repeating. 

A  flight  of  fluting  echoes,  sent 
With  elfin  carol  o'er  us,  — 

More  sweet  than  bird-song  in  the  prime 
Hang  out  the  sea-blown  chorus. 


PLUM   ISLAND.  183 

Behind  those  dunes  the  storms  had  heaped 

In  all  fantastic  fashion, 
Who  syllabled  our  songs  in  strains 

Remote  from  human  passion? 

What  tones  were  those  that  caught  our  own, 
Filtered  through  light  and  distance, 

And  tossed  them  gayly  to  and  fro 
With  such  a  sweet  insistence  ? 

What  shoal  of  sea-sprites,  to  the  sun 

Along  the  margin  nocking, 
Dripping  with  salt  dews  from  the  deeps, 

Made  this  melodious  mocking? 

We  laughed,  —  a  hundred  voices  rose 

In  airiest,  fairiest  laughter; 
We  sang,  —  a  hundred  voices  quired 

And  sang  the  whole  song  after. 

One  standing  eager  in  the  prow 

Blew  out  his  bugle  cheerly, 
And  far  and  wide  their  horns  replied 

More  silverly  and  clearly. 

And  falling  down  the  falling,  tide, 

Slow  and  more  slowly  going, 
Flown  far,  flown  far,  flown  faint  and  fine, 

We  heard  their  horns  still  blowing. 

Then,  with  the  last  delicious  note 

To  other  skies  alluring, 
Down  ran  the  sails ;  beneath  the  Bluff 

The  boat  lay  at  her  mooring. 
*  *  * 

Harriet  Prescott  Stafford. 


184  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Plymouth,  Mass. 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

THE  pilgrim  fathers,  —  where  are  they? 
The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore: 
\   Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day, 

When  the  May-Flower  moored  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 
l_^  And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapped  the  pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the  gale, 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone; 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  pilgrim  exile — sainted  name  !  — 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hillside  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head ;  — 

But  the  pilgrim — where  is  he? 


LEYDEN  STREET,  PLYMOUTH,  MASS.     See  pa?e  184. 


PLYMOUTH.  185 

The  pilgrim  fathers  are  at  rest: 

When  Summer  's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  May-Flower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 

John  Pierpont. 


THE   LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS    IN   NEW 
ENGLAND. 

THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock -bound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 


186  POEMS   OP   PLACES. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea ; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free ! 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared,  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home !  , 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  ;  — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 
There  was  manhood's  brow,  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 
Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 


PLYMOUTH.  187 

The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?  — 
They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found,  — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Felicia  Remans. 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDISH. 

I  SAT  one  evening  in  my  room, 
In  that  sweet  hour  of  twilight 
When  blended  thoughts,  half  light,  half  gloom, 

Throng  through  the  spirit's  skylight ; 
The  flames  by  fits  curled  round  the  bars, 

Or  up  the  chimney  crinkled, 
While  embers  dropped  like  falling  stars, 
And  in  the  ashes  tinkled. 

I  sat  and  mused;  the  fire  burned  low, 

And,  o'er  my  senses  stealing, 
Crept  something  of  the  ruddy  glow 

That  bloomed  on  wall  and  ceiling; 
My  pictures  (they  are  very  few, 

The  heads  of  ancient  wise  men) 
Smoothed  down  their  knotted  fronts,  and  grew 

As  rosy  as  excisemen. 

My  antique  high-backed  Spanish  chair 
Felt  thrills  through  wood  and  leather, 


188  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That  had  been  strangers  since  whilere, 

Mid  Andalusian  heather, 
The  oak  that  made  its  sturdy  frame 

His  happy  arms  stretched  over 
The  ox  whose  fortunate  hide  became 

The  bottom's  polished  cover. 

It  came  out  in  that  famous  bark, 

That  brought  our  sires  intrepid, 
Capacious  as  another  ark 

Tor  furniture  decrepit; 
Por,  as  that  saved  of  bird  and  beast 

A  pair  for  propagation, 
So  has  the  seed  of  these  increased 

And  furnished  half  the  nation. 

Kings  sit,  they  say,  in  slippery  seats; 

But  those  slant  precipices 
Of  ice  the  northern  voyager  meets 

Less  slippery  are  than  this  is; 
To  cling  therein  would  pass  the  wit 

Of  royal  man  or  woman, 
And  whatsoe'er  can  stay  in  it 

Is  more  or  less  than  human. 

I  offer  to  all  bores  this  perch, 
Dear  well-intentioned  people 

With  heads  as  void  as  week-day  church, 
Tongues  longer  than  the  steeple ; 

To  folks  with  missions,  whose  gaunt  eyes 
See  golden  ages  rising, — 


PLYMOUTH.  189 

Salt  of  the  earth !  in  what  queer  Guys 
Thou'rt  fond  of  crystallizing! 

My  wonder,  then,  was  not  unmixed 

With  merciful  suggestion, 
When,  as  my  roving  eyes  grew  fixed 

Upon  the  chair  in  question, 
I  saw  its  trembling  arms  enclose 

A  figure  grim  and  rusty, 
Whose  doublet  plain  and  plainer  hos^ 

Were  something  worn  and  dusty. 

Now  even  such  men  as  Nature  forms 

Merely  to  fill  the  street  with, 
Once  turned  to  ghosts  by  hungry  worms, 

Are  serious  things  to  meet  with; 
Your  penitent  spirits  are  no  jokes, 

And,  though  I'm  not  averse  to 
A  quiet  shade,  even  they  are  folks 

One  cares  not  to  speak  first  to. 

Who  knows,  thought  I,  but  he  has  come, 

By  Charon  kindly  ferried, 
To  tell  me  of  a  mighty  sum 

Behind  my  wainscot  buried? 
There  is  a  buccaneerish  air 

About  that  garb  outlandish  — 
Just  then  the  ghost  drew  up  his  chair 

And  said,  "My  name  is  Standish. 

"  I  come  from  Plymouth,  deadly  bored 
With  toasts,  and  songs,  and  speeches, 


190  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

As  long  and  flat  as  ray  old  sword, 
As  threadbare  as  my  breeches  : 

They  understand  us  Pilgrims !  they, 
Smooth  men  with  rosy  faces, 

Strength's  knots  and  gnarls  all  pared  away, 
And  varnish  in  their  places ! 

"We  had  some  toughness  in  our  grain, 

The  eye  to  rightly  see  us  is 
Not  just  the  one  that  lights  the  brain 

Of  drawing-room  Tyrtseuses : 
They  talk  about  their  Pilgrim  blood, 

Their  birthright  high  and  holy ! 
A  mountain-stream  that  ends  in  mud 

Methinks  is  melancholy. 

"He  had  stiff  knees,  the  Puritan, 

That  were  not  good  at  bending; 
The  homespun  dignity  of  man 

He  thought  was  worth  defending ; 
He  did  not,  with  his  pinchbeck  ore, 

His  country's  shame  forgotten, 
Gild  Freedom's  coffin  o'er  and  o'er, 

When  all  within  was  rotten. 

"These  loud  ancestral  boasts  of  yours, 
How  can  they  else  than  vex  us? 

Where  were  your  dinner  orators 
When  slavery  grasped  at  Texas? 

Dumb  on  his  knees  was  every  one 
That  now  is  bold  as  Caesar; 


PLYMOUTH.  191 

Mere  pegs  to  hang  an  office  on 
Such  stalwart  men  as  these  are." 

"Good  sir,"  I  said,  "you  seem  much  stirred; 

The  sacred  compromises  —  " 
"Now  God  confound  the  dastard  word! 

My  gall  thereat  arises : 
Northward  it  hath  this  sense  alone, 

That  you,  your  conscience  blinding, 
Shall  bow  your  fool's  nose  to  the  stone, 

When  slavery  feels  like  grinding; 

"  'T  is  shame  to  see  such  painted  sticks 

In  Vane's  and  Winthrop's  places, 
To  see  your  spirit  of  Seventy-six 

Drag  humbly  in  the  traces, 
With  slavery's  lash  upon  her  back, 

And  herds  of  office-holders 
To  shout  applause,  as,  with  a  crack, 

It  peels  her  patient  shoulders. 

"We  forefathers  to  such  a  rout!  — 

No,  by  my  faith  in  God's  word ! " 
Half  rose  the  ghost,  and  half  drew  out 

The  ghost  of  his  old  broadsword, 
Then  thrust  it  slowly  back  again, 

And  said,  with  reverent  gesture, 
"  No,  Freedom,  no  !  blood  should  not  stain 

The  hem  of  thy  white  vesture. 

"I  feel  the  soul  in  me  draw  near 
The  mount  of  prophesying; 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

In  this  bleak  wilderness  I  hear 

A  John  the  Baptist  crying; 
Tar  in  the  east  I  see  upleap 

The  streaks  oi  first  forewarning, 
And  they  who  sowed  the  light  shall  reap 

The  golden  sheaves  of  morning. 

"Child  of  our  travail  and  our  woe, 

Light  in  our  day  of  sorrow, 
Through  my  rapt  spirit  I  foreknow 

The  glory  of  thy  morrow; 
I  hear  great  steps,  that  through  the  shade 

Draw  nigher  still  and  nigher, 
And  voices  call  like  that  which  bade 

The  prophet  come  up  higher." 

I  looked,  no  form  mine  eyes  could  find, 

I  heard  the  red  cock  crowing, 
And  through  my  window-chinks  the  wind 

A  dismal  tune  was  blowing; 
Thought  I,  My  neighbor  Buckingham 

Hath  somewhat  in  him  gritty, 
Some  Pilgrim-stuff  that  hates  all  sham, 

And  he  will  print  my  ditty. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


PLYMOUTH.  193 


THE  MAYFLOWERS. 

THE  trailing  arbutus,  or  mayflower,  grows  abundantly  in  the  vicinity 
of  Plymouth,  and  was  the  first  flower  that  greeted  the  Pilgrims  after  their 
fearful  winter, 

SAD  Mayflower!  watched  by  winter  stars, 
And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 
And  leaves  of  frozen  sails! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 

Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 
In  common  with  the  wild-wood  flowers, 

The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May  ? 

Yet,  "  God  be  praised ! "  the  Pilgrim  said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above  the  brown  leaves,  dry  and  dead, 

"  Behold  our  Mayflower  here  ! " 

"  God  wills  it :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 

Our  years  of  wandering  o'er, 
Tor  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea 

Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea-wall's  rugged  length, 
Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 
Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

The  Pilgrim's  wild  and  wintry  day 

Its  shadow  round  us  draws ; 
The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 

Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod; 
And,  through  dead  leaves  of  hope,  shall  spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


ELDER  FAUNCE  AT  PLYMOUTH  ROCK. 

AN  old,  old  man ! 
His  hair  is  white  as  snow, 
His  feeble  footsteps  slow, 
And  the  light  in  his  eyes  grown  dim. 

An  old,  old  man ! 
Yet  they  bow  with  reverence  low, 
With  respect  they  wait  on  him. 

They  gather  to  his  side, 

And  in  his  way  they  throng : 
Greet  him  with  love  and  pride 


PLYMOUTH.  195 

The  aged  and  the  young. 
And  the  children  leave  their  play 
As  he  passes  on  his  way, 
And  afar  off  they  follow 

This  old,  old  man. 

He  has  gone  down  to  the  rock 
That  is  lying  by  the  shore; 
He  hath  silent  sate  him  down ; 
And  the  young  man,  whose  strong  arm 
Hath  shielded  him  from  harm, 
Will  not  disturb  the  dream 
That  his  spirit  hovers  o'er; 
And  the  gathered  throng  beside  him 
Group  them  on  the  shore. 

Long  he  sits  in  silence, 

The  old,  old  man; 
While  the  waves  with  silvery  reach 

Go  curling  up  the  beach, 
Or  dash  against  the  rocks  in  spray,  — 

The  huge  rocks  bedded  deep 

At  the  base  of  the  proud  steep, 
Where  the  green  ridge  of  Mauoniet 

Grandly  rises  far  away. 

All  the  air  is  still, 
And  every  distant  hill 
Its  summit  veils  in  soft,  misty  blue; 
Across  the  wide-spread  bay, 
Mve-and-twenty  miles  away, 
\  The  white  cliffs  of  Cape  Cod  hang  in  air, 


196  ,  POEMS    OP   PLACES. 

As  some  mysterious  hand, 
Or  enchanter's  lifted  wand, 

Had  suspended  them,  and  charmed  them  there; 
And  o'er  all  the  waters  wide, 
And  the  hills  in  summer  pride, 

And  the  islands  in  the  bay  that  rise, 
And  over  Saquish-head 
And  the  Gurnet's  breakers  dread, 

The  mild,  soft  sunlight  like  a  blessing  lies. 

The  old  man's  eyes  grow  bright 

With  the  light  of  bygone  days ; 

His  voice  is  strong  and  clear, 

His  form  no  more  is  bowed, 

He  stands  erect  and  proud, 
And,  dashing  from  his  eye  the  indignant  tear, 
He  turns  him  to  the  crowd  that  wait  expectant  near, 

And  reverent  on  him  gaze; 
Por  they  know  that  he  has  walked 

In  all  the  Pilgrim  ways. 

"  Mark  it  well ! "  he  cries, 

"  Mark  it  well ! 
This  rock  on  which  we  stand: 
For  here  the  honored  feet 
Of  our  Fathers'  exiled  band 

Pressed  the  land; 
And  not  the  wide,  wide  world, 

Not  either  hemisphere, 
Has  a  spot  in  its  domain 
To  freedom  half  so  dear." 
*  *  * 

Caroline  Frances  Orne. 


PLYMOUTH.  197 

Plymouth,  N.  H. 

DEATH  OF  HAWTHORNE. 

HE  rose  upon  an  early  dawn  of  May, 
And  looked  upon  the  stream  and  meadow  flowers, 
Then  on  the  face  of  his  beloved,  and  went; 

And,  passing,  gazed  upon  the  wayside  haunt, 
The  homely  budding  gardens  by  the  road, 
And  harvest  promise,  —  still  he  said,  I  go. 

Once  more  he  mingled  in  the  midday  crowd, 
And  smiled  a  gentle  smile,  a  sweet  farewell, 
Then  moved  towards  the  hills  and  laid  him  down. 

Lying,  he  looked  beyond  the  pathless  heights, 
Beyond  the  wooded  steep  and  clouded  peaks, 
And,  looking,  questioned,  then  he  loved  and  slept. 

And  while  he  slept  his  spirit  walked  abroad, 
And  wandered  past  the  mountain,  past  the  cloud, 
Nor  came  again  to  rouse  the  form  at  peace. 

Though  like  some  bird  we  strive  to  follow  him, 
Fruitless  we  beat  at  the  horizon's  verge, 
And  fruitless  seek  the  fathomless  blue  beyond. 

We  work  and  wait,  and  water  with  salt  tears, 
Learning  to  live  that  living  we  may  sleep, 
And  sleeping  cross  the  mountains  to  God's  rest. 

Annie  Fields. 


198  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Portland,  Me. 

MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.'1 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  arid  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 

And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 


PORTLAND.  199 

Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fjght  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes^ through  me  with  a  thrill: 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 


200  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  t^3  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


PORTLAND.  201 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


CHANGED. 

FOM  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Where  of  old  the  mile- stone  stood, 
Now  a  stranger,  looking  down 
I  behold  the  shadowy  crown 
Of  the  dark  and  haunted  wood. 

Is  it  changed,  or  am  I  changed? 

Ah !  the  oaks  are  fresh  and  green, 
But  the  friends  with  whom  I  ranged 
Through  their  thickets  are  estranged 

By  the  years  that  intervene. 

Bright  as  ever  flows  the  sea, 

Bright  as  ever  shines  the  sun, 
But  alas  !  they  seem  to  me 
Not  the  sun  that  used  to  be, 

Not  the  tides  that  used  to  run. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


202  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


FESSENDEFS  GARDEN. 

FROM  this  high  window,  in  the  twilight  dim, 
I  look  beyond  a  lofty  garden  wall, 
And  see  well-ordered  walks  and  borders  trim, 
With  trellised  vines  and  ranks  of  fruit-trees  tall. 

Along  the  darkling  shrubbery,  where  most 
.     The  garden's  olden  lord  at  evening  strayed, 
I  half  perceive  a  silent,  stately  ghost 

Taking  dim  shape  against  the  denser  shade. 

His  footstep  makes  no  rustle  in  the  grass, 

Nor  shakes  the  tenderest  blossom  on  its  stem; 

The  light  leaves  bend  aside  to  let  him  pass, — 
Or  is  it  but  the  wind  that  touches  them  ? 

A  statesman,  with  a  grave,  reflective  air, 

Once  used  to  walk  there,  in  the  shadows  sweet; 

Now  the  broad  apple-trees,  his  pride  and  care, 
Spread  their  pink  carpet  wide  for  alien  feet. 

Beneath  those  friendly  boughs,  with  mind  unbent, 
He  found  sometimes  a  respite  sweet  and  brief; 

Threaded  the  wandering  ways  in  pleased  content, 
And  plucked  a  flower,  or  pulled  a  fragrant  leaf; 

Twined  a  stray  tendril,  lopped  a  straggling  limb, 
Or  raised  a  spray  that  drooped  across  the  walk; 

Watched  unscared  birds  that  shared  the  shade  with  him, 
Saw  robins  build,  or  heard  the  sparrows  talk. 


PORTSMOUTH.  203 

His  native  streets  now  hardly  know  his  name ; 

And  in  the  world  of  politics,  wherein 
He  toiled  so  long  and  earned  an  honored  fame, 

It  is  almost  as  though  he  had  not  been. 

Amid  the  earnest  councils  of  the  land, 

His  lofty  form,  his  cold  and  clear-cut  face, 

His  even  voice,  and  wise  restraining  hand 
Are  known  no  more,  and  others  take  his  place. 

But  in  this  haunt  of  quietude  and  rest, 

"Which  for  so  many  years  he  loved  and  knew, 

The  bird  comes  back  to  build  its  annual  nest, 
The  months  return,  with  sun  and  snow  and  dew. 

Nature  lives  on,  though  king  or  statesman  dies; 

Thus  mockingly  these  little  lives  of  ours, 
So  brief,  so  transient,  seem  to  emphasize 

The  immortality  of  birds  and  flowers  ! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


Portsmouth,  N.  H. 

AMY  WENTWORTH. 

HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along ; 
The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

0  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 
Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee; 


204  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 
The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 
But  dreams  the  while  of  one 

Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Pair  toast  of  all  the  town !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
Tor  him  the  blush  of  shame 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 


PORTSMOUTH.  205 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine; 
Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 

Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur  ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 

With  stately  stairways  worn 
By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 

And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers; 


206  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 

Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold! 

Oh,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill; 
But  love  has  never  known  a  law 

Beyond  its  own  sweet  will! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


LADY  WENTWORTH. 

ONE  hundred  years  ago,  and  something  more, 
In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tavern  door, 
Neat  as  a  pin,  and  blooming  as  a  rose, 
Stood  Mistress  Stavers  in  her  furbelows, 
Just  as  her  cuckoo-clock  was  striking  nine. 
Above  her  head,  resplendent  on  the  sign, 
The  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax, 
In  scarlet  coat  and  periwig  of  flax, 
Surveyed  at  leisure  all  her  varied  charms, 
Her  cap,  her  bodice,  her  white  folded  arms, 


PORTSMOUTH.  207 

And  half  resolved,  though  he  was  past  his  prime, 
And  rather  damaged  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
To  fall  down  at  her  feet,  and  to  declare 
The  passion  that  had  driven  him  to  despair. 
Tor  from  his  lofty  station  he  had  seen 
Stavers,  her  husband,  dressed  in  bottle-green, 
Drive  his  new  Plying  Stage-coach,  four  in  hand, 
Down  the  long  lane,  and  out  into  the  land, 
And  knew  that  he  was  far  upon  the  way 
To  Ipswich  and  to  Boston  on  the  Bay ! 

Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 

Were  interrupted  by  a  little  girl, 

Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair, 

Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders  bare, 

A  thin  slip  of  a  girl,  like  a  new  moon, 

Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon, 

A  creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 

Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she  bore 

A  pail  of  water,  dripping,  through  the  street, 

And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked  feet. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  full  of  grace,  — 

The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face; 

The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by; 

The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 

That  o'er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and  glanced, 

As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeam  danced: 

And  with  uncommon  feelings  of  delight 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  beheld  the  sight. 

Not  so  Dame  Stavers,  for  he  heard  her  say 


208  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

These  words,  or  thought  he  did,  as  plain  as  day: 

"  O  Martha  Hilton  !     Eie !  how  dare  you  go 

About  the  town  half  dressed,  and  looking  so  !  " 

At  which  the  gypsy  laughed,  and  straight  replied : 

"  No  matter  how  I  look ;  I  yet  shall-  ride 

In  my  own  chariot,  ma'am."     And  on  the  child 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  benignly  smiled, 

As  with  her  heavy  burden  she  passed  on, 

Looked  back,  then  turned  the  corner,  and  was  gone. 

What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 
Arrested  his  attention  was  a  gay 
And  brilliant  equipage,  that  flashed  and  spun, 
The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and  lank, 
Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and  sank, 
While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A  portly  person  with  three-cornered  hat, 
A  crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered  hair, 
And  diamond  buckles  sparkling  at  his  knees, 
Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward  the  pageant  swept,  and  as  it  passed, 
Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and  fast; 
Tor  this  was  Governor  Wentworth,  driving  down 
To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking  out  to  sea, 
A  goodly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  be. 

It  was  a  pleasant  mansion,  an  abode 

Near  and  yet  hidden  from  the  great  high-road, 


PORTSMOUTH.  209 

Sequestered  among  trees,  a  noble  pile, 

Baronial  and  colonial  in  its  style ; 

Gables  and  dormer-windows  everywhere, 

And  stacks  of  chimneys  rising  high  in  air,  — 

Pandaean  pipes,  on  which  all  winds  that  blew 

Made  mournful  music  the  whole  winter  through. 

Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the  eye, 

Panels,  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapestry; 

Carved  chimney-pieces,  where  on  brazen  dogs 

Revelled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires  of  logs; 

Doors  opening  into  darkness  unawares, 

Mysterious  passages,  and  flights  of  stairs ; 

And  on  the  walls,  in  heavy  gilded  frames, 

The  ancestral  Wentworths  with  Old-Scripture  names. 

Such  was  the  mansion  where  the  great  man  dwelt, 

A  widower  and  childless;  and  he  felt 

The  loneliness,  the  uncongenial  gloom, 

That  like  a  presence  haunted  every  room; 

For  though  not  given  to  weakness,  he  could  feel 

The  pain  of  wounds,  that  ache  because  they  heal. 

The  years  came  and  the  years  went,  —  seven  in  all, 
And  passed  in  cloud  and  sunshine  o'er  the  Hall; 
The  dawns  their  splendor  through  its  chambers  shed, 
The  sunsets  flushed  its  western  windows  red; 
The  snow  was  on  its  roofs,  the  wind,  the  rain; 
Its  woodlands  were  in  leaf  and  bare  again; 
Moons  waxed  and  waned,  the  lilacs  bloomed  and  died, 
In  the  broad  river  ebbed  and  flowed  the  tide, 
Ships  went  to  sea,  and  ships  came  home  from  sea, 


210  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  slow  years  sailed  by  and  ceased  to  be. 

And  all  these  years  had  Martha  Hilton  served 

In  the  Great  House,  not  wholly  unobserved: 

By  day,  by  night,  the  silver  crescent  grew, 

Though  hidden  by  clouds,  her  light  still  shining  through; 

A  maid  of  all  work,  whether  coarse  or  fine, 

A  servant  who  made  service  seem  divine  ! 

Through  her  each  room  was  fair  to  look  upon ; 

The  mirrors  glistened,  and  the  brasses  shone, 

The  very  knocker  on  the  outer  door, 

If  she  but  passed,  was  brighter  than  before. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  turning  of  the  mill 
Of  Time,  that  never  for  an  hour  stands  still, 
Ground  out  the  Governor's  sixtieth  birthday, 
And  powdered  his  brown  hair  with  silver-gray. 
The  robin,  the  forerunner  of  the  spring, 
The  bluebird  with  his  jocund  carolling, 
The  restless  swallows  building  in  the  eaves, 
The  golden  buttercups,  the  grass,  the  leaves, 
The  lilacs  tossing  in  the  winds  of  May, 
All  welcomed  this  majestic  holiday  ! 
He  gave  a  splendid  banquet,  served  on  plate, 
Such  as  became  the  Governor  of  the  State, 
Who  represented  England  and  the  King, 
And  was  magnificent  in  everything. 
He  had  invited  all  his  friends  and  peers,  — 
The  Pepperels,  the  Langdons,  and  the  Lears, 
The  Sparhawks,  the  Penhallows,  and  the  rest; 
Tor  why  repeat  the  name  of  every  guest? 
But  I  must  mention  one,  in  bands  and  gown, 


PORTSMOUTH.  211 

The  rector  there,  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown 
Of  the  Established  Church;  with  smiling  face 
He  sat  beside  the  Governor  and  said  grace; 
And  then  the  feast  went  on,  as  others  do, 
But  ended  as  none  other  I  e'er  knew. 

When  they  had  drunk  the  King,  with  many  a  cheer. 

The  Governor  whispered  in  a  servant's  ear, 

Who  disappeared,  and  presently  there  stood 

Within  the  "room,  in  perfect  womanhood, 

A  maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 

Youthful  and  beautiful,  and  simply  dressed. 

Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton  ?     It  must  be ! 

Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she  ! 

Dowered  with  the  beauty  of  her  twenty  years, 

How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  appears ; 

The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone  by 

Is  Dian  now  in  all  her  majesty  ! 

Yet  scarce  a  guest  perceived  that  she  was  there 

Until  the  Governor,  rising  from  his  chair, 

Played  slightly  with  his  ruffles,  then  looked  down, 

And  said  unto  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown: 

"This  is  my  birthday:  it  shall  likewise  be 

My  wedding-day ;  and  you  shall  marry  me ! " 

The  listening  guests  were  greatly  mystified, 
None  more  so  than  the  rector,  who  replied: 
"  Marry  you  ?     Yes,  that  were  a  pleasant  task, 
Your  Excellency ;  but  to  whom  ?  I  ask." 
The  Governor  answered  :  "To  this  lady  here " ; 
And  beckoned  Martha  Hilton  to  draw  near. 


212  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

She  came  and  stood,  all  blushes,  at  his  side. 

The  rector  paused.     The  impatient  Governor  cried : 

"This  is  the  lady;  do  you  hesitate? 

Then  I  command  you  as  Chief  Magistrate." 

The  rector  read  the  service  loud  and  clear: 

"Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  here," 

And  so  on  to  the  end.     At  his  command 

On  the  fourth  finger  of  her  fair  left  hand 

The  Governor  placed  the  ring ;  and  that  was  all : 

Martha  was  Lady  Wentworth  of  the  Hall ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Providence,  R.  I. 

ROGER  WILLIAMS; 

LISTEN  to  his  rich  words,  intoned 
To  songs  of  lofty  cheer, 
Who  in  the  howling  wilderness, 
Mid  forests  wild  and  drear, 

Breathed  not  of  exile  nor  of  wrong, 
Through  the  long  winter  nights, 

But  uttered  in  exulting  song, 
The  soul's  unchartered  rights; 

Who  sought  the  oracles  of  God 
In  the  heart's  veiled  shrine, 

Nor  asked  the  monarch  nor  the  priest, 
His  sacred  laws  to  sign. 


PROVIDENCE.  213 

The  brave,  high  heart  that  would  not  yield 

Its  liberty  of  thought, 
Tar  o'er  the  melancholy  main, 

Through  bitter  trials  brought; 

But,  to  a  double  exile  doomed, 

By  Faith's  pure  guidance  led, — 
Through  the  dark  labyrinth  of  life, 

Held  fast  her  golden  thread. 

Listen!     The. music  of  his  dream 

Perchance  may  linger  still 
In  the  old  familiar  places 

Beneath  the  emerald  hill. 

The  wave-worn  rock  still  breasts  the  storm 

On  Seekonk's  lonely  side, 
Where  the  dusk  natives  hailed  the  bark 

That  bore  their  gentle  guide. 

The  spring  that  gushed  amid  the  wild 

In  music  on  his  ear, 
Still  pours  its  waters,  undefiled, 

The  fainting  heart  to  cheer. 

And  the  fair  cove,  that  slept  so  calm 

Beneath  o'ershadowing  hills, 
And  bore  the  exile's  evening  psalm 

Far  up  its  flowery  rills,  — 

The  wave  that  parted  to  receive 

The  pilgrim's  light  canoe, 
As  if  an  angel's  balmy  wing 

Had  stirred  its  waters  blue,  — 


214  POEMS    OP    PLACES. 

What  though  the  fire-winged  courser's  breath 

Has  swept  its  cooling  tide, 
And  fast  before  its  withering  blast, 

The  rushing  wave  has  dried, 

Still,  narrowed  to  our  crowded  mart, — 

A  fair  enchanted  mere,  T— 
In  the  proud  city's  throbbing  heart 

It  sleeps  serene  and  clear. 

Or  turn  we  to  the  green  hill's  side; 

There,  with  the  spring-time  showers, 
The  white-thorn  o'er  a  nameless  grave, 

Rains  its  pale,  silver  flowers. 

Yet  memory  lingers  with  the  past, 

Nor  vainly  seeks  to  trace 
His  footprints  on  a  rock,  whence  time 

Nor  tempests  can  efface; 

Whereon  he  planted,  fast  and  deep, 

The  roof4ree  of  a  home 
Wide  as  the  wings  of  Love  may  sweep, 

Free  as  her  thoughts  may  roam; 

Where  through  all  time  the  saints  may  dwell, 

And  from  pure  fountains  draw 
That  peace  which  passeth  human  thought, 

In  liberty  and  law. 

Sarah  Helen  Whitman. 


PROVIDENCE.  215 


GUILD'S  SIGNAL. 

WILLIAM  GUILD  was  engineer  of  the  train  which  on  the  19th  of  April 
plunged  into  Meadow  Brook,  on  the  line  of  the  Stonington  and  Providence 
Railroad.  It  was  his  custom,  as  often  as  he  passed  his  home,  to  whistle 
an  "  All 's  well  "  to  his  wife.  He  was  found,  after  the  disaster,  dead, 
with  his  hand  on  the  throttle-valve  of  his  engine. 

TWO  low  whistles,  quaint  and  clear, 
That  was  the  signal  the  engineer  — 
That  was  the  signal  that  Guild,  'tis  said  — 
Gave  to  his  wife  at  Providence, 
As  through  the  sleeping  town,  and  thence 
Out  in  the  night, 
On  to  the  light, 
Down  past  the  farms,  lying  white,  he  sped ! 

As  a  husband's  greeting,  scant,  no  doubt, 
Yet  to  the  woman  looking  out, 

Watching  and  waiting,  no  serenade, 
Love-song,  or  midnight  roundelay 
Said  what  that  whistle  seemed  to  say : 
"To  my  trust  true, 
So  love  to  you ! 
Working  or  waiting,  good  night ! "  it  said. 

Brisk  young  bagmen,  tourists  fine, 
Old  commuters  along  the  line, 

Brakemen  and  porters  glanced  ahead, 
Smiled  as  the  signal,  sharp,  intense, 
Pierced  through  the  shadows  of  Providence, — 
"  Nothing  amiss  — 


216  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Nothing  !  —  it  is 
Only  Guild  calling  his  wife/'  they  said. 

Summer  and  winter,  the  old  refrain 
Rang  o'er  the  billows  of  ripening  grain, 

Pierced  through  the  budding  boughs  o'erhead, 
Flew  down  the  track  when  the  red  leaves  burned 
Like  living  coals  from  the  engine  spurned; 
Sang  as  it  flew: 
"  To  our  trust  true, 
First  of  all,  duty  !     Good  night !  "  it  said. 

And  then,  one  night,  it  was  heard  no  more 
From  Stonington  over  Rhode  Island  shore, 

And  the  folk  in  Providence  smiled  and  said, 
As  they  turned  in  their  beds,  "  The  engineer 
Has  once  forgotten  his  midnight  cheer." 
One  only  knew, 
To  his  trust  true, 
Guild  lay  under  his  engine,  dead. 

Bret  Harte. 


A  NOVEMBER  LANDSCAPE. 

HOW  like  a  rich  and  gorgeous  picture  hung 
In  memory's  storied  hall,  seems  that  fair  scene 
O'er  which  long  years  their  melloMdng  tints  have  flung. 
The  wayside  flowers  had  faded  one  by  one, 
Hoar  were  the  hills,  the  meadows  drear  and  dun,  — 
When  homeward,  wending,  'neath  the  dusky  screen 
Of  the  autumnal  woods  at  close  of  day, 
As  o'er  a  pine-clad  height  my  pathway  lay, 


PROVIDENCE.  217 

Lo !  at  a  sudden  turn,  the  vale  below 

Lay  far  outspread,  all  flushed  with  purple  light ; 

Gray  rocks  and  umbered  woods  gave  back  the  glow 

Of  the  last  day-beams,  fading  into  night; 

While  down  the  glen  where  fair  Moshaussuck  flows 

With  all  its  kindling  lamps  the  distant  city  rose. 

Sarah  Helen  Whitman. 


TO  THE  WEATHEKCOCK  ON  OUR  STEEPLE. 

THE  dawn  has  broke,  the  morn  is  up, 
Another  day  begun; 
And  there  thy  poised  and  gilded  spear 

Is  flashing  in  the  sun, 
Upon  that  steep  and  lofty  tower 

Where  thou  thy  watch  hast  kept, 
A  true  and  faithful  sentinel, 
While  all  around  thee  slept. 

For  years,  upon  thee,  there  has  poured 

The  summer's  noonday  heat, 
And  through  the  long,  dark,  starless  night 

The  winter  storms  have  beat; 
But  yet  thy  duty  has  been  done, 

By  day  and  night  the  same, 
Still  thou  hast  met  and  faced  the  storm, 

Whichever  way  it  came. 

No  chilling  blast  in  wrath  has  swept 
Along  the  distant  heaven, 


218  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  thou  hast  watched  its  onward  course, 

And  distant  warning  given; 
And,  when  midsummer's  sultry  beams 

Oppress  all  living  things, 
Thou  dost  foretell  each  breeze  that  comes 

With  health  upon  its  wings. 

How  oft  I've  seen,  at  early  dawn, 

Or  twilight's  quiet  hour, 
The  swallows,  in  their  joyous  glee, 

Come  darting  round  their  tower, 
As  if,  with  thee,  to  hail  the  sun 

And  catch  his  earliest  light, 
And  offer  ye  the  morn's  salute, 

Or  bid  ye  both  good  night. 

And  when,  around  thee  or  above, 

No  breath  of  air  has  stirred, 
Thou  seem'st  to  watch  the  circling  flight 

Of  each  free,  happy  bird, 
Till,  after  twittering  round  thy  head 

In  many  a  mazy  track, 
The  whole  delighted  company 

Have  settled  on  thy  back. 

Then,  if,  perchance,  amidst  their  mirth, 

A  gentle  breeze  has  sprung, 
And,  prompt  to  mark  its  first  approach, 

Thy  eager  form  hath  swung, 
I've  thought  I  almost  heard  thee  say, 

As  far  aloft  they  flew,  — 


PROVIDENCE.  %       219 

"Now  all  away!  here  ends  our  play, 
For  I  have  work  to  do!" 

Men  slander  thee,  my  honest  friend, 

And  call  thee,  in  their  pride, 
An  emblem  of  their  fickleness, 

Thou  ever-faithful  guide. 
Each  weak,  unstable  human  mind 

A  "weathercock"  they  call; 
And  thus,  unthinkingly,  mankind 

Abuse  thee,  one  and  all. 

They  have  no  right  to  make  thy  name 

A  byword  for  their  deeds  : 
They  change  their  friends,  their  principles, 

Their  fashions,  and  their  creeds; 
Whilst  thou  hast  ne'er,  like  them,  been  known 

Thus  causelessly  to  range  ; 
But  when  thou  changest  sides,  canst  give 

Good  reason  for  the  change. 

Thou,  like  some  lofty  soul,  whose  course 

The  thoughtless  oft  condemn, 
Art  touched  by  many  airs  from  heaven 

Which  never  breathe  on  them, — 
And  moved  by  many  impulses 

Which  they  do  never  know, 
Who,  round  their  earth-bound  circles,  plod 

The  dusty  paths  below. 

Through  one  more  dark  and  cheerless  night 
Thou  well  hast  kept  thy  trust, 


220         '  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  now  in  glory  o'er  thy  head 

The  morning  light  has  burst. 
And  unto  earth's  true  watcher,  thus, 

When  his  dark  hours  have  passed, 
Will  come  "  the  day-spring  from,  on 

To  cheer  his  path  at  last. 

Bright  symbol  of  fidelity, 

Still  may  I  think  of  thee  ; 
And  may  the  lesson  thou  dost  teach 

Be  never  lost  on  me  ; 
But  still,  in  sunshine  or  in  storm, 

Whatever  task  is  mine, 
May  I  be  faithful  to  my  trust, 

As  thou  hast  been  to  thine. 

Albert  G.  Greene. 


Rhode  Island,  the  Island. 

A  MEDITATION  ON  RHODE  ISLAND  COAL. 

I  SAT  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped 
With  Newport  coal,  and  as  the  flame  grew  bright, 
The  many-colored  flame,  —  and  played  and  leaped, 
I  thought  of  rainbows  and  the  Northern  Light, 
Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  the  Treasury  Report, 
And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort. 

At  last  I  thought  of  that  fair  isle  which  sent 
The  mineral  fuel;  on  a  summer  day 


RHODE    ISLAND,    THE    ISLAND.  221 

I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 

And  scratched  by  dwarf-oaks  in  the  hollow  way; 
Now  dragged  through  sand,  now  jolted  over  stone,  — 
A  nigged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 

And  hotter  grew  the  air,  and  hollower  grew 

The  deep-worn  path,  and,  horror-struck,  I  thought 

Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me  to  ? 

This  long,  dull  road,  so  narrow,  deep,  and  hot? 

I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright; 

I  looked,  —  but  saw  a  far  more  welcome  sight. 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 

At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay; 
Smooth,  and  with  tender  verdure  covered  o'er, 

As  if  just  risen  from  its  calm  inland  bay ; 
Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 
And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the  sedge. 

The  barley  was  just  reaped,  —  its  heavy  sheaves 
Lay  on  the  stubble  field,  —  the  tall  maize  stood 

Dark  in  its  summer  growth,  and  shook  its  leaves,  — 
And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the  young  wood,  — 

Tor  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 

The  Briton  hewed  their  ancient  groves  away. 

I  saw  where  fountains  freshened  the  green  land, 
And  where  the  pleasant  road,  from  door  to  door 

With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 

Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region  o'er,  — 

Rogue's  Island  once,  — but,  when  the  rogues  were  dead, 

Rhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  instead. 


222  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Beautiful  island!  then  it  only  seemed 

A  lovely  stranger,  —  it  has  grown  a  friend. 

I  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never  dreamed 
How  soon  that  bright  beneficent  isle  would  send 

The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 

To  warm  a  poet's  room  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark  anthracite  !  that  reddenest  on  my  hearth, 
Thou  in  those  island  mines  didst  slumber  long; 

But  now  thou  art  come  forth  to  move  the  earth, 
And  put  to  shame  the  men  that  mean  thee  wrong. 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that  hate  thee, 

And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  underrate  thee. 

Yea,  they  did  wrong  thee  foully, — they  who  mocked 
Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst  not  burn; 

Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney-pieces  talked, 

And  grew  profane,  —  and  swore,  in  bitter  scorn, 

That  men  might  to  thy  inner  caves  retire, 

And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 

Yet  is  thy  greatness  nigh.     I  pause  to  state, 
That  I  too  have  seen  greatness,  even  I, — 

Shook  hands  with  Adams,  —  stared  at  La  Payette, 
When,  bareheaded,  in  the  hot  noon  of  July, 

He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held  o'er  him, 

Por   which   three   cheers  burst  from  the   mob  before 
him. 

And  I  have  seen  —  not  many  months  ago  — 

An  eastern  governor  in  chapeau  bras 
And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show ! 

Hide  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah ! 


KHODE   ISLAND,    THE   ISLAND.  223 

How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jonathan! 

How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes  were  won! 

'T  was  a  great  governor, — thou  too  shalt  be 

Great  in  thy  turn,  —  and  wide  shall  spread  thy  fame, 

And  swiftly;  farthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee, 
And  cold  New  Brunswick  gladden  at  thy  name, 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weeping  isle 

That  sends  the  Boston  folks  their  cod  shall  smile. 

For  thou  shalt  forge  vast  railways,  and  shalt  heat 
The  hissing  rivers  into  steam,  and  drive 

Huge  masses  from  thy  mines,  on  iron  feet, 
Walking  their  steady  way,  as  if  alive, 

Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 

And  south  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard  lets  thee. 

Thou  shalt  make  mighty  engines  swim  the  sea, 
Like  its  own  monsters,  —  boats  that  for  a  guinea 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre,  —  and  shalt  be 
The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning-jenny, 

And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 

As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. " 

Then  we  will  laugh  at  Winter  when  we  hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings  rave ; 

Thou,  from  that  "ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper  gave, 

And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag  him  in, 

And  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin. 

William  CuUen  Bryant. 


224  POEMS   OP   PLACES. 

Eye,  N.  H. 

VOICES  OF  THE  SEA. 

ON  the  lone  rocks  of  Rye, 
When  the  day  grows  dimmer, 
And  the  stars  from  the  sky 

Shed  a  tremulous  glimmer, 
While  the  low  winds  croon, 

And  the  waves,  as  they  glisten, 
Complain  to  the  moon, 
I  linger  and  listen. 

All  the  magical  whole 

Of  shadow  and  splendor 
Steals  into  my  soul, 

Majestic  yet  tender ; 
And  the  desolate  main, 

Like  a  sibyl  intoning 
Her  mystical  strain, 

Keeps  ceaselessly  moaning. 

I  hear  it  spell-bound, 

All  its  myriad  voices,  — 
Its  wandering  sound, 

And  my  spirit  rejoices ; 
For  out  of  the  deep 

And  the  distance  it  crieth, 
And,  deep  unto  deep, 

My  spirit  replieth. 

Thomas  Durfee. 


SACO,    THE    RIVER.  225 

Saco,  the  River,  N.  H.  and  Me. 

THE  EIVER  SACO. 

FROM  Agiochook's  granite  steeps, 
Pair  Saco  rolls  in  cliainless  pride, 
Rejoicing  as  it  laughs  and  leaps 

Down  the  gray  mountain's  rugged  side ;  — 
The  stern  rent  crags  and  tall  dark  pines 

Watch  that  young  pilgrim  flashing  by,   • 
While  close  above  them  frowns  or  shines 
The  black  torn  cloud,  or  deep  blue  sky. 

Soon  gathering  strength  it  swiftly  takes 

Through  Bartlett's  vales  its  tuneful  way, 
Or  hides  in  Con  way's  fragrant  brakes, 

Retreating  from  the  glare  of  day ;  — 
Now,  full  of  vigorous  life,  it  springs 

From  the  strong  mountain's  circling  arms, 
And  roams,  in  wide  and  lucid  rings, 

Among  green  Fryeburg's  woods  and  farms. 

Here  with  low  voice  it  comes  and  calls 

For  tribute  from  some  hermit  lake, 
And  here  it  wildly  foams  and  falls, 

Bidding  the  forest  echoes  wake ;  — 
Now  sweeping  on  it  runs  its  race 

By  mound  and  mill  in  playful  glee ;  — 
Now  welcomes,  with  its  pure  embrace, 

The  vestal  waves  of  Ossipee. 


226  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

At  last,  with  loud  and  solemn  roar, 

Spurning  each  rocky  ledge  and  bar, 
It  sinks  where,  on  the  sounding  shore, 

The  broad  Atlantic  heaves  afar;  — 
There,  on  old  ocean's  faithful  breast, 

Its  wealth  of  waves  it  proudly  flings, 
And  there  its  weary  waters  rest, 

Clear  as  they  left  their  crystal  springs. 

Sweet  stream!   it  were  a  fate  divine, 

Till  this  world's  toils  and  tasks  were  done, 
To"  go,  like  those  bright  floods  of  thine, 

Refreshing  all,  enslaved  by  none,  — 
To  pass  through  scenes  of  calm  and  strife, 

Singing,  like  thee,  with  holy  mirth, 
And  close  in  peace  a  varied  life, 

Unsullied  by  one  stain  of  earth. 

James  Gilborne  Lyons. 


THE  FALLS  OF  THE  SAGO. 

TTTHO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure  of  stone, 
'  V      Uumoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 

Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  sparkles  on  high, 
Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Megone? 
Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 

While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work  is  doing, 
Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 

And  slow  through  the  rock  its  pathway  hewing! 
Tar  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  falling  river, 


SACO,    THE    RIVER.  227 

Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 
The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are  seen, 
With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 
While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  beneath 
Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite  teeth! 

John,  GreenleaJ  Whiltier. 


SACO  FALLS, 

RUSH  on,  bold  stream  !   thou  sendest  up 
Brave  notes  to  all  the  woods  around, 
When  morning  beams  are  gathering  fast, 

And  hushed  is  every  human  sound; 
I  stand  beneath  the  sombre  hill, 
The  stars  are  dim  o'er  fount  and  rill, 
And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play 
In  welcome  music,  far  away; 
Dash  on,  bold  stream  !    I  love  the  roar 
Thou  sendest  up  from  rock  and  shore. 

'Tis  night  in  heaven,  —  the  rustling  leaves 

Are  whispering  of  the  coining  storm, 
And,  thundering  down  the  river's  bed, 
I  see  thy  lengthened,  darkling  form; 
No  voices  from  the  vales  are  heard, 
The  winds  are  low,  each  little  bird 
Hath  sought  its  quiet,  rocking  nest, 
Folded  its  wings,  and  gone  to  rest : 
And  still  I  hear  thy  waters  play 
In  welcome  music,  far  away. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Oh!  earth,  hath  many  a  gallant  show, 
Of  towering  peak  and  glacier  height, 

But  ne'er,  beneath  the  glorious  moon, 
Hath  nature  framed  a  lovelier  sight 

Than  thy  fair  tide  with  diamonds  fraught, 

When  every  drop  with  light  is  caught, 

And,  o'er  the  bridge,  the  village  gills 

Reflect  below  their  waving  curls, 

While  merrily  thy  waters  play 

In  welcome  music,  far  away ! 

James  Thomas  Fields. 


THE  SACO. 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from  the  lake 
that  never  fails, 

Tails  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Conway's  intervales ; 
There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters  foam  and 

flow, 

As  when  Darby  ¥ield  first  saw  them,  two  hundred  years 
ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges,  dams, 

and  mills, 
How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its   freedom 

of  the  hills, 
Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately  Cham- 

pernoon 
Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolf's  howl,  the  trumpet 

of  the  loon ! 


SALEM.  229 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds  of  fire 

and  steam, 
Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him  like 

a  dream. 
Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  backward  far 

and  fast 
The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of  the  past. 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged :   the  sorrow  and 

the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our  own 

akin; 
And  if,  in  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our  mothers 

sung, 
Tradition   wears  a  snowy  beard,   Romance  is  always 

young. 

*  *  * 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Salem,  Mass. 

SALEM  WITCHCRAFT. 

DELUSIONS  of  the  days  that  once  have  been, 
Witchcraft  and  wonders  of  the  world  unseen, 
Phantoms  of  air,  and  necromantic  arts 
That  crushed  the  weak  and  awed  the  stoutest  hearts, 
These  are  our  theme  to-night ;   and  vaguely  here, 
Through  the  dim  mists  that  crowd  the  atmosphere, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

We  draw  the  outlines  of  weird  figures  cast 
In  shadow  on  the  background  of  the  Past. 

Who  would  believe  that  in  the  quiet  town 
Of  Salem,  and  amid  the  woods  that  crown 
The  neighboring  hillsides,  and  the  sunny  farms 
That  fold  it  safe  in  their  paternal  arms,  — 
Who  would  believe  that  in  those  peaceful  streets, 
Where  the  great  elms  shut  out  the  summer  heats, 
Where   quiet  reigns,  and  breathes   through  brain  and 

breast 

The  benediction  of  unbroken  rest,  — 
Who  would  believe  such  deeds  could  find  a  place 
As  these  whose  tragic  history  we  retrace  ? 

'T  was  but  a  village  then :   the  goodman  ploughed 
His  ample  acres  under  sun  or  cloud; 
The  goodwife  at  her  doorstep  sat  and  spun, 
And  gossiped  with  her  neighbors  in  the  sun; 
The  only  men  of  dignity  and  state 
Were  then  the  Minister  and  the  Magistrate, 
Who  ruled  their  little  realm  with  iron  rod, 
Less  in  the  love  than  in  the  fear  of  God; 
And  who  believed  devoutly  in  the  Powers 
Of  Darkness,  working  in  this  world  of  ours, 
In  spells  of  Witchcraft,  incantations  dread, 
And  shrouded  apparitions  of  the  dead. 

Upon  this  simple  folk  "with  fire  and  flame," 
Saith  the  old  Chronicle,  "  the  Devil  came ; 
Scattering  his  firebrands  and  his  poisonous  darts, 
To  set  on  fire  of  Hell  all  tongues  and  hearts ! 
And  'tis  no  wonder;   for,  with  all  his  host, 
There  most  he  rages  where  he  hateth  most, 


SALEM.  231 

And  is  most  hated;   so  on  us  lie  brings 

All  these  stupendous  and  portentous  things  ! " 

Something  of  this  our  scene  to-night  will  show** 
And  ye  who  listen  to  the  Tale  of  Woe, 
Be  not  too  swift  in  casting  the  first  stone, 
Nor  think  New  England  bears  the  guilt  alone. 
This  sudden  burst  of  wickedness  and  crime 
Was  but  the  common  madness  of  the  time, 
W~hen  in  all  lands,  that  lie  within  the  sound 
Of  Sabbath  bells,  a  Witch  was  burned  or  drowned. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


SALEM. 

SWIFT  fly  the  years.     Too  swift,  alas ! 
A  full  half-century  has  flown, 
Since,  through  these  gardens  fair  and  pastures  lone 

And  down  the  busy  street, 
Or  'neath  the  elms  whose  shadows  soft  are  thrown 

Upon  the  common's  trampled  grass, 

Pattered  my  childish  feet. 

Gone  are  the  happy  games  we  played  as  boys  ! 
Gone  the  glad  shouts,  the  free  and  careless  joys, 
The  fights,  the  feuds,  the  friendships  that  we  had,    ' 
And  all  the  trivial  things  that  had  the  power, 
When  Youth  was  in  its  early  flower, 

To  make  us  sad  or  glad  ! 
Gone  the  familiar  faces  that  we  knew, 
Silent  the  voices  that  once  thrilled  us  through, 

And  ghosts  are  everywhere  ! 


332  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

They  peer  from  every  window-pane, 
From  every  alley,  street,  and  lane 

They  whisper  on  the  air. 
They  haunt  the  meadows  green  and  wide, 
The  garden-walk,  the  river-side, 
The  beating  mill  adust  with  meal, 
The  rope-walk  with  its  whirring  wheel, 
The  elm  grove  on  the  sunny  ridge, 
The  rattling  draw,  the  echoing  bridge ; 
The  lake  on  which  we  used  to  float 
What  time  the  blue  jay  screamed  his  note, 
The  voiceful  pines  that  ceaselessly 
Breathed  back  their  answer  to  the  sea, 
The  school-house,  where  we  learned  to  spell, 
The  church,  the  solemn-sounding  bell, — 

All,  all,  are  full  of  them. 
Where'er  we  turn,  howe'er  we  go, " 

Ever  we  hear  their  voices  dim 

That  sing  to  us  as  in  a  dream 

The  song  of  "Long  ago." 

Ah  me,  how  many  an  autumn  day 
We  watched  with  palpitating  breast 

Some  stately  ship,  from  India  or  Cathay, 
Laden  with  spicy  odors  from  the  East, 

Come  sailing  up  the  bay  ! 
Unto  our  youthful  hearts  elate 
What  wealth  beside  their  real  freight 
Of  rich  material  things  they  bore ! 
Ours  were  Arabian  cargoes,  fair, 
Mysterious,  exquisite,  and  rare; 


SALEM.  233 

From  far  romantic  lands  built  out  of  air 
On  an  ideal  shore 

Sent  by  Aladdin,  Camaralzaman, 

Morgiana,  or  Badoura,  or  the  Khan. 
Treasures  of  Sindbad,  vague  and  wondrous  things 
Beyond  the  reach  of  aught  but  Youth's  imaginings. 


How  oft  half-fearfully  we  prowled 

Around  those  gabled  houses,  quaint  and  old, 

Whose  legends,  grim  and  terrible, 

Of  witch  and  ghost  that  used  in  them  to  dwell, 

Around  the  twilight  fire  were  told; 
While  huddled  close  with  anxious  ear 

We  heard  them,  quivering  with  fear, 
And,  if  the  daylight  half  o'ercame  the  spell, 

'T  was  with  a  lingering  dread 
We  oped  the  door  and  touched  the  stinging  bell 

In  the  dark  shop  that  led, 
Tor  some  had  fallen  under  time's  disgrace, 

To  meaner  uses  and  a  lower  place. 
But  as  we  heard  it  ring,  our  hearts'  quick  pants 

Almost  were  audible; 

Eor  with  its  sound  it  seemed  to  rouse  the  dead, 
And  wake  some  ghost  from  out  the  dusky  haunts 

Where  faint  the  daylight  fell. 

Upon  the  sunny  wharves  how  oft 
Within  some  dim  secluded  loft 
We  played,  and  dreamed  the  livelong  day, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  in  play; 


234  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

We  cared  not,  let  it  slip  away, 
And  let  the  sandy  hour-glass  run, 
Time  is  so  long,  and  life  so  long 
When  it  has  just  begun. 

William  Watmore  Story. 


Salmon,  the  River,    N.  H. 

SALMON  EIYER, 

IS  a  sweet  stream,  —  and  so,  't  is  true,  are  all 
That,  undisturbed,  save  by  the  harmless  brawl 
Of  mimic  rapid  or  slight  waterfall, 

Pursue  their  way 

By  mossy  bank,  and  darkly  waving  wood, 
By  rock,  that  since  the  deluge  fixed  has  stood, 
Showing  to  sun  and  moon  their  crisping  flood 
By  night  and  day. 

But  yet  there  's  something  in  its  humble  rank, 
Something  in  its  pure  wave  and  sloping  bank, 
Where  the  deer  sported,  and  the  young  fawn  drank 

With  uns cared  look  ; 

There  's  much  in  its  wild  history,  that  teems 
With  all  that 's  superstitious,  —  and  that  seems 
To  match  our  fancy  and  eke  out  our  dreams, 

In  that  small  brook. 

Havoc  has  been  upon  its  peaceful  plain, 

And  blood  has  dropped  there,  like  the  drops  of  rain ; 

The  corn  grows  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  slain,  — 


SALMON,    THE   RIVER.  235 

And  many  a  quiver, 

Filled  from  the  reeds  that  grew  on  yonder  hill, 
Has  spent  itself  in  carnage.     Now  'tis  still, 
And  whistling  ploughboys  oft  their  runlets  fill 

Prom  Salmon  River. 

Here,  say  old  men,  the  Indian  magi  made 
Their  spells  by  moonlight;  or  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  sequestered  rock,  or  darkening  gkde, 

Or  tangled  dell. 

Here  Philip  came,  and  Miantonimo, 
And  asked  about  their  fortunes  long  ago, 
As  Saul  to  Endor,  that  her  witch  might  show 

Old  Samuel. 

And  here  the  black  fox  roved,  that  howled  and  shook 
His  thick  tail  to  the  hunters,  by  the  brook 
Where  they  pursued  their  game,  and  him  mistook 

For  earthly  fox ; 

Thinking  to  shoot  him  like  a  shaggy  bear, 
And  his  soft  peltry,  stripped  and  dressed,  to  wear, 
Or  lay  a  trap,  and  from  his  quiet  lair 

Transfer  him  to  a  box. 

Such  are  the  tales  they  tell.     'T  is  hard  to  rhyme 

About  a  little  and  unnoticed  stream, 

That  few  have  heard  of, — but  it  is  a  theme 

I  chance  to  love; 

And  one  day  I  may  tune  my  rye-straw  reed, 
And  whistle  to  the  note  of  many  a  deed 
Done  on  this  river,  —  which,  if  there  be  need, 

I  '11  try  to  prove. 

John  Gardner  Calkins  Brainard. 


236  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Saybrook,   Conn. 

BRIDE  BROOK. 

TIT  IDE  as  the  sky  Time  spreads  his  hand, 

'  '       And  blindly  over  us  there  blows 
A  swarm  of  years  that  fill  the  land, 
Then  fade,  and  are  as  fallen  snows. 

Behold,  the  flakes  rush  thick  and  fast; 

Or  are  they  years  that  come  between, 
When,  peering  back  into  the  past, 

I  search  the  legendary  scene  ? 

Nay;  marshalled  down  the  open  coast, 
Fearless  of  that  low  rampart's  frown, 

The  winter's  white-winged,  footless  host 
Beleaguers  ancient  Saybrook  town. 

And  when  the  settlers  wake,  they  stare 
On  woods  half-buried,  white  and  green, 

A  smothered  world,  an  empty  air : 

Never  had  such  deep  drifts  been  seen  ! 

But  "  Snow  lies  light  upon  my  heart ! 

An  thou,"  said  merry  Jonathan  Rudd, 
"Wilt  wed  me,  winter  shall  depart, 

And  love  like  spring  for  us  shall  bud." 

"Nay,  how,"  said  Mary,  "may  that  be? 
Nor  minister  nor  magistrate 


SAYBROOK.  237 

Is  here,  to  join  us  solemnly; 

And  snow-banks  bar  us,  every  gate." 

"Winthrop  at  Pequot  Harbor  lies," 
He  laughed.     And  with  the  morrow's  snn 

He  faced  the  deputy's  dark  eyes : 

"  How  soon,  sir,  may  the  rite  be  done  ?  " 

"At  Saybrook?    There  the  power's  not  mine," 
Said  he.     "But  at  the  brook  we  '11  meet,' 

That  ripples  down  the  boundary  line; 
There  you  may  wed,  and  Heaven  shall  see't." 

Forth  went,  next  day,  the  bridal  train 
Through  vistas  dreamy  with  gray  light. 

The  waiting  woods,  the  open  plain, 
Arrayed  in  consecrated  white, 

Received  and  ushered  them  along; 

The  very  beasts  before  them  fled, 
Charmed  by  the  spell  of  inward  song 

These  lovers'  hearts  around  them  spread. 

Tour  men  with  netted  foot-gear  shod 
Bore  the  maid's  carrying-chair  aloft ; 

She  swayed  above,  as  roses  nod 

On  the  lithe  stem  their  bloom-weight  soft. 

At  last  beside  the  brook  they  stood, 

With  Winthrop  and  his  followers; 
The  maid  in  flake-embroidered  hood, 

The  magistrate  well  cloaked  in  furs, 


238  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That,  parting,  showed  a  glimpse  beneath 

Of  ample,  throat-encircling  ruff 
As  white  as  some  wind-gathered  wreath 

Of  snow  quilled  into  plait  and  puff. 

A  few  grave  words,  a  question  asked, 
Eyelids  that  with  the  answer  fell 

Like  falling  petals, — form  that  tasked 

Brief  time;  —  yet  all  was  wrought,  and  well! 

Then  "Brooklet,"  Winthrop  smiled  and  said, 
"Frost's  finger  on  thy  lip  makes  dumb 

The  voice  wherewith  thou  shouldst  have  sped 
These  lovers  on  their  way;  but,  come, 

"Henceforth  forever  be  thou  known 
By  name  of  her  here  made  a  bride ; 

So  shall  thy  slender  music's  moan 
Sweeter  into  the  ocean  glide!" 

Then  laughed  they  all,  and  sudden  beams 
Of  sunshine  quivered  through  the  sky. 

Below  the  ice  the  unheard  stream's 
Clear  heart  thrilled  on  in  ecstasy; 

And  lo,  a  visionary  blush 

Stole  warmly  o'er  the  voiceless  wild, 
And  in.  her  rapt  and  wintry  hush 

The  lonely  face  of  Nature  smiled. 

Ah,  Time,  what  wilt  thou?     Vanished  quite 

Is  all  that  tender  vision  now; 
And  like  lost  snow-flakes  in  the  night, 

Mute  lie  the  lovers  as  their  vow. 


SCITUATE.  239 

And  0  tliou  little,  careless  brook, 
Hast  thou  thy  tender  trust  forgot? 

Her  modest  memory  forsook, 
Whose  name,  known  once,  thou  utterest  not  ? 

Spring  wakes  the  rill's  blithe  minstrelsy; 

In  willow  bough  or  alder  bush 
Birds  sing,  with  golden  filigree 

Of  pebbles  'neath  the  flood's  clear  gush; 

But  none  can  tell  us  of  that  name 

More  than  the  "Mary.'*    Men  still  say 

" Bride  Brook"  in  honor  of  her  fame; 
But  all  the  rest  has  passed  away. 

George  Parsons  Lathrop. 


Scituate,  Mass. 

THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 

HOW  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wildwood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ;  — 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 


240  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing ) 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

Samuel  Woodworth, 


AT  SEA. 

IT  was  off  the  cliffs  of  Scituate, 
In  old  Massachusetts  Bay, 
We  took  a  stiff  northeaster, 
About  the  break  of  day ; 
Lord !  how  it  howled  and  whistled 
Through  the  ratlines  and  the  shrouds, 


SCITUATE.  241 

As  the  icy  snow  dashed  pelting 

Through  the  scud  of  lowering  clouds ! 

Outspoke  then  our  bold  captain, — 

"  She  fairly  drifts  astern ; 
Against  this  gale  no  Boston 

Can  the  good  barque  make,  this  turn; 
To  beach  her  were  but  madness, 

Where  the  wild  surf  runs  so  high,  — 
Under  our  lee  lies  Scituate, 

And  there  we  can  but  try." 

Then  "  Hard  up  ! "  cried  the  captain,  — 

Like  a  bird  she  bore  away, 
The  blast  just  struck  her  quarter, 

And  she  flew  across  the  bay; 
Before  us  broke  the  dreaded  bar, 

And  by  the  helmsman  stood 
Our  captain,  as  the  brave  barque  plunged 

Into  the  foam-tossed  flood. 

One  plunge!  the  strong  wave  lifted  her,. — 

Aghast  stood  all  the  crew ! 
Again,  —  she  rose  upon  the  surge, — 

And  it  brought  her  safely  through. 
Now,  God  bless  Scituate  Harbor, 

And  be  blessed  forevermore, 
Who  saved  us  from  the  sea's  cold  clasp, 

By  that  wild,  treacherous  shore. 

George  Lunt. 


242  POEMS    OP   FLACES. 

Seaconnet  Point,  JR.  L 

NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  SE1CONNET  SHOEE. 

T17E  sat  together,  you  and  I, 

And  watched  the  daylight's  dying  bloom, 
And  saw  the  great  white  ships  go  by, 

Like  phantoms  through  the  gathering  gloom. 

Like  phantom  lights  the  lonely  stars 

Looked  through  the  sea-fog's  ghastly  veil, 

Beyond  the  headland's  rocky  bars 
We  heard  the  stormy  surges  wail. 

We  sat  together,  hand  in  hand, 

Upon  the  lonely,  sea-girt  wall, 
And  watched,  along  the  glimmering  strand, 

The  wild,  white  breakers  plunge  and  fall. 

YQU  spoke  of  pleasures  past  away, 
Of  hopes  that  left  the  heart  forlorn, 

Of  life's  unrest  and  love's  decay, 
And  lonely  sorrows  proudly  borne. 

The  sea's  phantasmal  sceneries 

Commingled  with  your  mournful  theme; 

The  splendors  of  your  starry  eyes 

Were  drowned  in  memory's  deepening  dream. 

Darker  and  lonelier  grew  the  night 
Along  the  horizon's  dreary  verge, 


SEACONNET    POINT.  243 

And  lonelier  through  the  lessening  light 
Sang  the  wild  sea-wind's  wailing  dirge. 

When,  kindling  through  the  gathering  gloom, 
Beyond  West-Island's  beetling  brow, 

Where  breakers  dash,  and  surges  boom, 
We  saw  Point  Judith's  fires  aglow. 

Piercing  night's  solemn  mystery, 
The  lighthouse  reared  its  lonely  form, 

Serene  above  the  weltering  sea 

And  guardant  through  the  gathering  storm. 

So,  o'er  the  sea  of  life's  unrest, 

Through  griefs  wild  storm,  and  sorrow's  gloom, 
Faith's  heavenly  pharos  in  the  breast 

Lights  up  the  dark  with  deathless  bloom. 

The  sea-born  sadness  of  the  hour 

Melted  beneath  its  holy  spell; 
Faith  blossomed  into  perfect  flower, 

And  our  hearts  whispered,  "All  is  well." 

Sarah  Helen  Whitma,  . 


STORM  ON  SAUGOMET. 

ROUND  and  red  in  a  golden  haze 
Had  the  sun  gone  up  from  his  eastern  bed 
For  days  and  days,  and  as  round  and  red 
The  sun  had  gone  down  for  days  and  days. 

The  windless  hills  were  bathed  in  the  gold 
Of  their  own  autumnal  atmosphere, — 


244  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

The  thousand  hues  of  the  parting  year 
In  their  banners  of  glory  mixed,  fold  on  fold. 

Round  and  red  in  the  midnight  sky 

The  lone  moon  rode  with  never  a  star, — 
The  bronzed  right  wheel  of  her  noiseless  car 

With  a  broad  tire  girdling  her  throne  on  high. 

Then  came  the  storm  with  its  signal  drum, 
All  night  we  heard  on  the  eastern  shore 
The  steady  booming  and  muffled  roar 

Of  the  great  waves'  tramp  ere  the  winds  had  come ! 

They  came  with  the  morning !  the  lurid  glow 
Of  the  sunrise  into  black  ashes  burned ; 
The  torn  clouds  whirled,  overturned  and  turned, 

Wrung  till  they  streamed  with  a  torrent's  flow. 

With  the  measured  march  of  a  mighty  host 
The  ground-swell  came,  with  wave  upon  wave, 
On  the  red  Saugonnet  rocks  they  drave, 

And  scattered  their  foam  over  leagues  of  coast. 

Out  of  the  Infinite,  up  from  the  smoke 

Of  the  watery  Gehenna  the  wild  waves  rose, 
Lashed  into  wrath  by  invisible  foes, 

On  the  crags  of  the  headland  their  fury  broke. 

Spectral  and  dim  over  sunk  Cuttywow 

The  white  spray  hung,  but  ye  heard  no  shock, 
For  the  liquid  thunder  on  red  Wall  Rock 

Crushed  out  all  sound  with  its  deafening  blow. 


SEACONNET    POINT.  245 

From  the  granite  jaws  of  the  Clump,  the  foam 
Of  a  maniac  wrath  was  drifted,  white, 
Snowed  on  the  blast  with  the  snowy  flight 

Of  the  screaming  gulls  driven  out  from  home. 

In  the  swirl  of  the  Hopper  the  waves  were  ground 
To  impalpable  dust;  the  Ridge  Rock  roared 
To  the  crash  of  a  new  Niagara  poured 

Right  up  the  crags  with  a  slippery  bound  ! 

Over  Brenton's  Reef  where  the  west  hung  black, 
O'er  the  cloudy  bar  of  the  Cormorant  Rocks, 
The  white  seas  hurried  in  huddling  flocks 

With  the  wolf-winds  howling  along  their  track. 

They  came  and  went  in  a  wavering  mist, 

The  phantoms  that  hung  on  the  skirts  of  the  blast ; 
While  the  nearer  Cliff  his  defiance  cast; 

Maddening  the  seas  with  his  granite  fist. 

Far  inland  the  moan  of  the  tempest  told 

What  war  was  waged  on  the  crumbling  crags, 
How  the  charging  billows  were  torn  on  jags 
Of  the  Island  Cliff  as  they  backward  rolled. 
*  *  * 

George  S.  Burleigh, 


24-6  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 


Sebago,  the  Lake,  Me. 

FUNERAL-IEEE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 
1756. 

A  ROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
-fi-  There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  snn  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak. 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 


SEBAGO,    THE   LAKE.  247 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried, — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  : 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide,  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 


248  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

JT  is  done:  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 
*  *  * 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Shoal  of  George's,  Mass. 

THE  LETTER  OF  MARQUE. 

WE  had  sailed  out  a  Letter  of  Marque, 
Fourteen  guns  and  forty  men; 
And  a  costly  freight  our  gallant  barque 

Was  bearing  home  again. 
We  had  ranged  the  seas  the  whole  summer-tide, 

Crossed  the  main,  and  returned  once  more; 
Our  sails  were  spread,  and  from  the  mast-head 
The  lookout  saw  the  distant  shore. 

"  A  sail !  a  sail  on  the  weather  bow ! 
Hand  over  hand,  ten  knots  an  hour  ! " 

"Now  God  defend  it  ever  should  end 
That  we  should  fall  in  the  foeman's  power ! " 

'T  was  an  English  frigate  came  bearing  down, 
Bearing  down  before  the  gale, 


SHOAL  OF  GEORGE'S.  .        249 

Riding  the  waves  that  sent  their  spray 
Dashing  madly  o'er  mast  andjsail. 

Every  stitch  of  our  canvas  set, 

Like  a  frightened  bird  our  good  barque  flew; 
The  wild  waves  lashed  and  the  foam  crests  dashed, 

As  we  threaded  the  billows  through. 
The  night  came  down  on  the  waters  wide,  — 

"  By  Heaven's  help  we  '11  see  home  once  more," 
Our  captain  cried,  "for  nor-nor-west 

Lies  Cape  Cod  Light,  and  the  good  old  shore." 

A  sudden  flash,  and  a  sullen  roar 

Booming  over  the  stormy  sea, 
Showed  the  frigate  close  on  our  track,  — 

How  could  we  hope  her  grasp  to  flee  ? 
Our  angry  gunner  the  stern-chaser  fired; 

I  hardly  think  they  heard  the  sound, 
The  billows  so  wildly  roared  and  raged, 

As  we  forward  plunged  with  furious  bound. 

"All  our  prizes  safely  in, 

Shall  we  fall  a  prize  to-night? 
The  Shoal  of  George's  lies  sou-south-east, 

Bearing  away  from  Cape  Cod  Light." 
Our  captain's  face  grew  dark  and  stern, 

Deadly  white  his  closed  lips  were. 
The  men  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  — 

Not  a  look  that  spoke  of  fear. 
"Hard  up!" 

Hard  up  the  helm  was  jammed. 

The  wary  steersman  spoke  no  word. 


250  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

In  the  roar  of  the  breakers  on  either  side 

Murmurs  of  wonder  died  unheard. 
Loud  and  clear  rose  the  captain's  voice,  -*- 

A  bronzed  old  sea-dog,  calm  and  cool, 
He  had  been  in  sea-fights  oft, 

Trained  eye  and  hand  in  danger's  school. 
"Heave  the  lead!" 

The  lead  was  hove; 

Sharp  and  short  the  quick  reply; 
Steady  rose  the  captain's  voice, 

Dark  fire  glowed  his  swarthy  eye, 
Right  on  the  Shoal  of  George's  steered, 

Urged  with  wild,  impetuous  force, 
Lost,  if  on  either  side  we  veered 

But  a  hand's  breadth  from  our  course. 
On  and  on  our  good  barque  drove, 

Leaping  like  mad  from  wave  to  wave, 
Hissing  and  roaring  'round  her  bow, 

Hounding  her  on  to  a  yawning  grave. 

God !  't  was  a  desperate  game  we  played ! 

White  as  the  combing  wave  grew  each  cheek; 
Our  hearts  in  that  moment  dumbly  prayed, 

Eor  never  a  word  might  our  blenched  lips  speak. 
On  and  on  the  frigate  drove, 

Right  in  our  track,  close  bearing  down; 
Our  captain's  face  was  still  and  stern, 

Every  muscle  too  rigid  to  frown. 

On  and  on  the  frigate  drove, 

Swooping  down  in  her  glorious  pride; 


SONGO,    THE   RIVER.  251 

Lord  of  heaven!  what  a  shriek  was  that 

Ringing  over  the  waters  wide  ! 
Striking  swift  on  the  sunken  rocks, 

Down  went  the  frigate  beneath  the  wave; 
All  her  crew  in  an  instant  sunk, 

Gulfed  in  the  closing  grave ! 

We  were  alone  on  the  rolling  sea; 

Man  looked  to  man  with  a  silent  pain ; 
Sternly  our  captain  turned  away; 

Our  helmsman  bore  on  our  course  again. 
Into  the  harbor  we  safely  sailed 

When  the  red  morn  glowed  o'er  the  bay : 
The  sinking  ship,  and  the  wild  death-cry, 

We  shall  see  and  hear,  to  our  dying  day. 

Caroline  Trances  Orne. 


Songo,  the  River,  Me. 

SONGO  RIVER 

CONNECTING    LAKE    SEBAGO    AND    LONG    LAKE. 

NOWHERE  such  a  devious  stream, 
Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 
Winding  slow  through  bush  and  brake, 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 


252  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow. 

Never  errant  knight  of  old, 
Lost  in  woodland  or  on  wold, 
Such  a  winding  path  pursued 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 

Never  school-boy  in  his  quest 
After  hazel-nut  or  nest, 
Through  the  forest  in  and  out 
Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 

In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 

Swift  or  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing, 
Or  the  loon,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream  !  thy  Indian  name 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame; 
For  thou  bidest  here  alone, 
Well  content  to  be  unknown. 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech, 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 


SPRINGFIELD.  253 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 
Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveller  on  his  way:  — 

"Traveller,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet ! 
Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste! 

"Be  not  like  a  stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 
But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul." 

Henri/  Wadswortli  Longfellow. 


Springfield,  Mass. 

THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

THIS  is  the  arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms  ; 
But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 


254  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  0  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 


SUDBURY.  255 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts; 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred  ! 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "  Peace  !  " 

Peace !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

Henry  Wads  worth  Longfellow. 


Sudbury,  Mass. 

THE  WAYSIDE  INN, 

ONE  autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town, 
Across  the  meadows  bare  and  brown, 
The  windows  of  the  wayside  inn 
Gleamed  red  with  firelight  through  the  leaves 
Of  woodbine,  hanging  from  the  eaves 
Their  crimson  curtains  rent  and  thin. 


256  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

As  ancient  is  this  hostelry 

As  any  in  the  land  may  be, 

Built  in  the  old  Colonial  day, 

When  men  lived  in  a  grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality; 

A  kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 

Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay, 

With  weather-stains  upon  the  wall, 

And  stairways  worn,  and  crazy  doors, 

And  creaking  and  uneven  floors, 

And  chimneys  huge  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A  region  of  repose  it  seems, 

A  place  of  slumber  and  of  dreams, 

Remote  among  the  wooded  hills ! 

For  there  no  noisy  railway  speeds, 

Its  torch-race  scattering  smoke  and  gleeds ; 

But  noon  and  night,  the  panting  teams 

Stop  under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 

Tangles  of  light  and  shade  below, 

On  roofs  and  doors  and  window-sills  ; 

Across  the  road  the  barns  display 

Their  lines  of  stalls,  their  mows  of  hay; 

Through  the  Avide"  doors  the  breezes  blow; 

The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  fro, 

And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 

The  Red  Horse  prances  on  the  sign. 

Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a  gust 
Went  rushing  down  the  county  road, 
And  skeletons  of  leaves,  and  dust, 


WACHUSETT,  THE  MOUNTAIN.       257 

A  moment  quickened  by  its  breath, 
Shuddered  and  danced  their  dance  of  death, 
And  through  the  ancient  oaks  overhead 
Mysterious  voices  moaned  and  fled. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Wachusett,  the  Mountain,  Mass. 

WACHUSETT. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led, 
A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential  tread, 
Into  that  mountain  mystery.     First  a  lake 
Tinted  with  sunset;  next  the  wavy  lines 

Of  far  receding  hills ;  and  yet  more  far 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of  pines 

His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachusett  laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose  warm  light  made 

His  aureole ;  and  o'er  him,  sharp  and  clear, 
Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launching  stayed, 
A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 

Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  golden  spear ! 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.     Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our  back; 
And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 


258  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  brown  old  farm-house  like  a  bird's-nest  hung. 
With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred: 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed  ;  the  gate 
Of  the  barnyard  creaked  beneath  the  merry  weight 

Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they  swung, 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear ; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in  tinklings  clear, 

The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  backward  path  we  took, 

Praising  the  farmer's  home.     He  only  spake, 

Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 

Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most  near : 
"Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant  look; 

I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 

Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace  of  God !  " 

The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered  o'er, 
As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of  the  mountain,  where  its  shadow  deepest  sank, 
Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged  road  : 
We  felt  that  man  was  more  than  his  abode,  — 

The  inward  life  than  Nature's  raiment  more ; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted  hill, 

The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed  dwarfed  and  dim 
Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  human  will 
Meekly  in  the  Eternal  footsteps  trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 

Swelling  from  angel  lips  and  harps  of  seraphim. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


WACHUSETT,    THE    MOUNTAIN.  259 


TO  WACHUSETT. 

WITH  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground, 
With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 
Tumultuous  silence  for  all  sound, 
Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 
Monadnock,  and  the  Peterboro'  hills ; 
Like  some  vast  fleet, 
Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet, 
Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat; 
Still  holding  on,  upon  your  high  emprise, 
Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies ; 
Not  skulking  close  to  land, 
With  cargo  contraband, 
For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 
Have  set  the  sun  to  see 
Their  honesty. 
Ships  of  line,  each  one, 
Ye  to  the  westward  run, 
Always  before  the  gale, 
Under  a  press  of  sail, 
With  a  weight  of  metal  all  untold. 
I  seem  to  feel  ye,  in  my  firm  seat  here, 
Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 
And  breadth  of  beam,  and  length  of  running  gear. 


But  special  I  remember  thee, 
Wachusett,  who  like  me 
Standest  alone  without  society. 


260  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Thy  far  blue  eye, 

A  remnant  of  the  sky, 

Seen  through  the  clearing  or  the  gorge, 

Or  from  the  windows  of  the  forge, 

Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 

Nothing  is  true, 

But  stands  'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  western  pioneer, 

Who  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven, 

Under  the  eaves  of  heaven, 

And  canst  expand  thee  there, 

And  breathe  enough  of  air! 

Upholding  heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth, 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other; 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother! 

Henry  David  Thoreau. 


Waverly,  Mass. 

BEAVER  BROOK. 

HUSHED  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill, 
And,  minuting  the  long  day's  loss, 
The  cedar's  shadow,  slow  and  still, 
Creeps  o'er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley's  cup. 
The  aspen's  leaves  are  scarce  astir; 


WAVERLY.  261 

Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill-pond's  brink, 
From  'neath  the  arching  barberry-stems, 
My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewiuk. 

Beneath  a  bony  buttonwood 
The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din; 
The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued, 
Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  here; 
Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 
Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear, 
And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will. 

Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 
Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound, 
Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and  grace, 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath  drudge  round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost 
The  quivering  millstones  hum  and  whirl, 
Nor  how  for  every  turn  are  tost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl. 

But  Summer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 
With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice, 
To  see  how  Beauty  underlies 
Forevermore  each  form  of  Use. 


262  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  more :  methouglit  I  saw  that  flood, 
Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals, 
Thick,  here  and  there,  with  human  blood, 
To  turn  the  world's  laborious  wheels. 

No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there, 
Shut  in  our  several  cells,  do  we 
Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 
Moves  every  day's  machinery. 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 
When  this  fine  overplus  of  might, 
No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb, 
Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light. 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth 

Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play, 

Eresh  blood  in  Time's  shrunk  veins  make  mirth, 

And  labor  meet  delight  half-way. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


White  Mountains,  N.  H. 

THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
Through  the  rough  northern  country.     We  had 

seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 
Of  Winnipiseogee ;  and  had  felt 


WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  263 

The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 

Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 

Of  the  bright  waters.     We  had  checked  our  steeds, 

Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 

Is  piled  to  heaven;   and,  through  the  narrow  rift 

Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 

Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 

Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 

Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 

Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 

We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 

Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco ;   and  bewildered 

In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills, 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;   and  atop 

Of  old  Agiochook  had  seen  the  mountains 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and  thick 

As  meadow  mole-hills,  —  the  far  sea  of  Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east; 

Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills ; 

Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 

Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 

Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy  spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 

Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had  tracked 


264  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 
Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From,  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire;   and  its  beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 
The  Merrimac  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

FOE-  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hills 
And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining, 
And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 
And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valley  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through  Sandwich  notch  the  west-wind  sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter ; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 


WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  265 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky 

The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness ; 
And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 

Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 
And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sideling  way  above 

The  river's  whitening  shallows, 
By  homesteads  old,  with  wide-flung  barns 

Swept  through  and  through  by  swallows, — 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 

And  larches  climbing  darkly 
The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 

The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven,  — 


266  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven,  — 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 
Prom  far  celestial  fountains, — 
The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 

*  *  * 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

PltOFILE    NOTCH,    FRANCONIA. 

The  "  Profile  "  is  formed  by  separate  projections  of  the  cliff,  which, 
viewed  from  a  particular  point,  assume  the  marvellous  appearance  of  a 
colossal  human  face. 

ALL  round  the  lake  the  wet  woods  shake 
From  drooping  boughs  their  showers  of  pearl; 
From  floating  skiff  to  towering  cliff 
The  rising  vapors  part  and  curl. 
The  west-wind  stirs  among  the  firs 

High  up  the  mountain  side  emerging; 
The  light  illumes  a  thousand  plumes 

Through  billowy  banners  round  them  surging. 

A  glory  smites  the  craggy  heights : 

And  in  a  halo  of  the  haze, 
Flushed  with  faint  gold,  far  up,  behold 

That  mighty  face,  that  stony  gaze  ! 
In  the  wild  sky  upborne  so  high 

Above  us  perishable  creatures, 


The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain."    See  page  267 


WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  26? 

Confronting  Time  with  those  sublime, 
Impassive,  adamantine  features. 

Thou  beaked  and  bald  high  front,  miscalled 

The  profile  of  a  human  face ! 
No  kin  art  thou,  0  Titan  brow, 

To  puny  man's  ephemeral  race. 
The  groaning  earth  to  thee  gave  birth, — 

Throes  and  convulsions  of  the  planet; 
Lonely  uprose,  in  grand  repose, 

Those  eighty  feet  of  facial  granite. 

Here  long,  while  vast,  slow  ages  passed, 

Thine  eyes  (if  eyes  be  thine)  beheld 
But  solitudes  of  crags  and  woods, 

Where  eagles  screamed  and  panthers  yelled. 
Before  the  fires  of  our  pale  sires 

In  the  first  log-built  cabin  twinkled, 
Or  redmen  came  for  fish  and  game, 

That  scalp  was  scarred,  that  face  was  wrinkled. 

We  may  not  know  how  long  ago 

That  ancient  countenance  was  young ; 
Thy  sovereign  brow  was  seamed  as  now 

When  Moses  wrote  and  Homer  sung. 
Empires  and  states  it  antedates,  0 

And  wars,  and  arts,  and  crime,  and  glory; 
In  that  dim  morn  when  man  was  born 

Thy  head  with  centuries  was  hoary. 

Thou  lonely  one !   nor  frost,  nor  sun, 
Nor  tempest  leaves  on  thee  its  trace; 


268  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  stormy  years  are  but  as  tears 
That  pass  from  thy  unchanging  face. 

With  unconcern  as  grand  and  stern, 

Those  features  viewed,  which  now  survey  us, 

A  green  world  rise  from  seas  of  ice, 
And  order  come  from  mud  and  chaos. 

Canst  thou  not  tell  what  then  befell? 

What  forces  moved,  or  fast  or  slow ; 
How  grew  the  hills;   what  heats,  what  chills, 

What  strange,  dim  life,  so  long  ago  ? 
High-visaged  peak,  wilt  thou  not  speak  ? 

One  word,  for  all  our  learned  wrangle ! 
What  earthquakes  shaped,  what  glaciers  scraped, 

That  nose,  and  gave  the  chin  its  angle  ? 

Our  pygmy  thought  to  thee  is  naught, 

Our  petty  questionings  are  vain; 
In  its  great  trance  thy  countenance 

Knows  not  compassion  nor  disdain. 
With  far-off  hum  we  go  and  come, 

The  gay,  the  grave,  the  busy-idle ; 
And  all  things  done  to  thee  are  one, 

Alike  the  burial  and  the  bridal. 

Thy  permanence,  long  ages  hence, 
Will  mock  the  pride  of  mortals  still. 

Returning  springs,  with  songs  and  wings 
And  fragrance,  shall  these  valleys  fill; 

The  free  winds  blow,  fall  rain  or  snow, 
The  mountains  brim  their  crystal  beakers- 


WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  269 

Still  come  and  go,  still  ebb  and  flow, 
The  summer  tides  of  pleasure-seekers : 

The  dawns  shall  gild  the  peaks  where  build 

The  eagles,  many  a  future  pair; 
The  gray  scud  lag  on  wood  and  crag, 

Dissolving  in  the  purple  air; 
The  sunlight  gleam  on  lake  and  stream, 

Boughs  wave,  storms  break,  and  still  at  even 
All  glorious  hues  the  world  suffuse, 

Heaven  mantle  earth,  earth  melt  in  heaven! 

Nations  shall  pass  like  summer's  grass, 

And  times  unborn  grow  old  and  change; 
New  governments  and  great  events 

Shall  rise,  and  science  new  and  strange; 
Yet  will  thy  gaze  confront  the  days 

With  its  eternal  calm  and  patience, 
The  evening  red  still  light  thy  head, 

Above  thee  burn  the  constellations. 

0  silent  speech,  that  well  can  teach 
The  little  worth  of  words  or  fame ! 

1  go  my  way,  but  thou  wilt  stay 
While  future  millions  pass  the  same: 

But  what  is  this  I  seem  to  miss  ? 

Those  features  fall  into  confusion ! 
A  further  pace  —  where  was  that  face? 

The  veriest  fugitive  illusion  ! 

Gray  eidolon !   so  quickly  gone, 
sv  When  eyes  that  make  thee  onward  move; 


270  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Whose  vast  pretence  of  permanence 

A  little  progress  can  disprove  ! 
Like  some  huge  wraith  of  human  faith 

That  to  the  mind  takes  form  and  measure; 
Grim  monolith  of  creed  or  myth, 

Outlined  against  the  eternal  azure  ! 

0  Titan,  how-  dislimned  art  thou ! 

A  withered  cliff  is  all  we  see ; 
That  giant  nose,  that  grand  repose, 

Have  in  a  moment  ceased  to  be ; 
Or  still  depend  on  lines  that  blend, 

On  merging  shapes,  and  sight,  and  distance, 
And  in  the  mind  alone  can  find 

Imaginary  brief  existence ! 

John  Townsend  Trowbridgt 


IN  A  CLOUD  RIFT. 

UPON  our  loftiest  White  Mountain  peak, 
Pilled  with  the  freshness  of  untainted  air, 
We  sat,  nor  cared  to  listen  or  to  speak 

To  one  another,  for  the  silence  there 
Was  eloquent  with  God's  presence.     Not  a  sound 

Uttered  the  winds  in  their  unhindered  sweep 
Above  us  through  the  heavens.     The  gulf  profound 

Below  us  seethed  with  mists,  a  sullen  deep, 
From  thawless  ice-caves  of  a  vast  ravine 
Rolled  sheeted  clouds  across  the  lands  unseen. 

How  far  away  seemed  all  that  we  had  known 
In  homely  levels  of  the  earth  beneath, 


WHITE   MOUNTAINS.  271 

Where   still   our   thoughts   went  wandering  — "  Turn 
thee  ! "     Blown 

Apart  before  us,  a  dissolving  wreath 
Of  cloud  framed  in  a  picture  on  the  air : 

The  fair  long  Saco  Valley,  whence  we  came ; 
The  hills  and  lakes  of  Ossipee ;  and  there 

Glimmers  the  sea  !     Some  pleasant,  well-known  name 
With  every  break  to  memory  hastens  back; 
Monadnock,  —  Winnipesaukee,  —  Merrimack. 

On  widening  vistas  broader  rifts  unfold : 

Tar  off  into  the  waters  of  Champlain 
Great  sunset  summits  dip  their  flaming  gold ; 

There  winds  the  dim  Connecticut,  a  vein 
Of  silver  on  aerial  green;  and  here, 

The  upland  street  of  rural  Bethlehem ; 
And  there,  the  roofs  of  Bethel.     Azure-clear 

Shimmers  the  Androscoggin ;  like  a  gem 
Umbagog  glistens;  and  Katahdin  gleams 
Uncertain  as  a  mountain  seen  in  dreams. 

Our  own  familiar  world,  not  yet  half  known, 

Nor  loved  enough,  in  tints  of  Paradise 
Lies  there  before  us,  now  so  lovely  grown, 

We  wonder  what  strange  film  was  on  our  eyes 
Ere  we  climbed  hither.     But  again  the  cloud, 

Descending,  shuts  the  beauteous  vision  out; 
Between  us  the  abysses  spread  their  shroud: 

We  are  to  earth,  as  earth  to  us,  a  doubt. 
Dear  home  folk,  skyward  seeking  us,  can  see 

No  crest  or  crag  where  pilgrim  feet  may  be. 


272  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Who  whispered  unto  us  of  life  and  death 

As  silence  closed  upon  our  hearts  once  more  ? 

On  heights  where  angels  sit,  perhaps  a  breath 

May  clear  the  separating  gulfs  ;  a  door 

May  open  sometimes  betwixt  earth  and  heaven, 
And  life's  most  haunting  mystery  be  shown 

A  fog-drift  of  the  mind,  scattered  and  Driven 
Before  the  winds  of  God:  no  vague  unknown 

Death's  dreaded  path,  —  only  a  curtained  stair ; 

And  heaven  but  earth  raised  into  purer  air. 

Lucy  Larcont, 

CHOCOKUA. 

fTIHE  pioneer  of  a  great  company 

-L   That  wait  behind  him,  gazing  toward  the  east, — 

Mighty  ones  all,  down  to  the  nameless  least,  — 

Though  after  him  none  dares  to  press,  where  he 

With  bent  head  listens  to  the  minstrelsy 

Of  far  waves  chanting  to  the  moon,  their  priest. 

What  phantom  rises  up  from  winds  deceased? 

What  whiteness  of  the  unapproachable  sea? 

Hoary  Chocorua  guards  his  mystery  well : 

He  pushes  back  his  fellows,  lest  they  hear 

The  haunting  secret  he  apart  must  tell 

To  his  lone  self,  in  the  sky-silence  clear. 

A  shadowy,  cloud-cloaked  wraith,  with  shoulders  bowed, 

He  steals,  conspicuous,  from  the  mountain-crowd. 

Lucy  Larcom. 


WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  273 


CLOUDS  ON  WHITEFACE. 

SO  lovingly  the  clouds  caress  his  head,  — 
The  mountain-monarch ;  he,  severe  and  hard, 
With  white  face  set  like  flint  horizon-ward ; 
They  weaving  softest  fleece  of  gold  and  red, 
And  gossamer  of  airiest  silver  thread, 
To  wrap  his  form,  wind-beat6n,  thunder-scarred. 
They  linger  tenderly,  and  fain  would  stay, 
Since  he,  earth-rooted,  may  not  float  away. 
He  upward  looks,  but  moves  not ;  wears  their  hues  ; 
Draws  them  unto  himself ;  their  beauty  shares  ; 
And  sometimes  his  own  semblance  seems  to  lose, 
His  grandeur  and  their  grace  so  interfuse ; 
And  when  his  angels  leave  him  unawares, 
A  sullen  rock,  his  brow  to  heaven  he  bares. 

Lucy  Larcom. 

BALD-CAP  EEYISITED. 

ELEVEN  years,  and  two  fair  months  beside, 
Full  to  the  brim  with  various  love  and  joy, 
My  life  has  known  since  last  I  drew  apart 
Into  this  huge  sky-shouldering  mountain  dome, 
And,  listening,  heard  the  winds  among  the  pines 
Making  a  music  as  of  countless  choirs, 
Chanting  in  sweet  and  solemn  unison; 
And,  standing  here  where  God's  artificers, 
Angels  of  frost  and  fire  and  sun  and  storm, 
Have  made  a  floor  with  nameless  gems  inlaid, 


274  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Saw,  like  a  roof,  the  slopes  of  living  green 

Go  cleaving  down  to  meet  the  lower  hills,  — 

Firm-buttressed  walls,  their  bases  overgrown 

With  meadow-sweet  and  ferns  and  tangled  vines, 

And  all  that  makes  the  roadsides  beautiful; 

While,  all  around  me,  other  domes  arose, 

Girded  with  towers  and  eager  pinnacles, 

Into  the  silent  and  astonished  air. 

Full  oft,  since  then,  up-looking  from  below, 

As  naught  to  me  has  been  the  pleasantness 

Of  meadows  broad,  and,  mid  them,  flowing  wide 

The  Androscoggm's  dark  empurpled  stream, 

Enamored  of  thine  awful  loveliness, 

Thy  draperies  of  forests  overspread 

With  shadows  and  with  silvery,  shining  mists, 

Thy  dark  ravines  and  cloud-conversing  top, 

Where  it  would  almost  seem  that  one  might  hear 

The  talk  of  angels  in  the  happy  blue ;  — 

And  so,  in  truth,  my  heart  has  heard  to-day. 

Dear  sacred  Mount,  not  thine  alone  the  charm 
By  which  thou  dost  so  overmaster  me, 
But  something  in  thy  lover's  beating  heart, 
Something  of  memories  vague  and  fond  and  sweet, 
Something  of  what  he  cannot  be  again, 
Something  of  sharp  regret  for  vanished  joys, 
And  faces  that  he  may  no  more  behold, 
And  voices  that  he  listens  for  in  vain, 
And  feet  whose  welcome  sound  he  hears  no  more, 
And  hands  whose  touch  could  make  his  being  thrill 
With  love's  dear  rapture  of  delicious  pain,  — 


WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  275 

Something  of  all  the  years  that  he  has  lived, 
Of  all  the  joy  and  sorrow  he  has  known, 
Since  first  with  eager  feet  and  heart  aflame 
He  struggled  up  thy  steep  and  shaggy  sides, 
Sun-flecked,  leaf-shaded  realms  of  life  in  death, 
And  stood,  as  now,  upon  thy  topmost  crest, 
Trembling  with  joy  and  tender  unto  tears ;  — 
Something  of  all  these  things  mingles  with  thee,  — 
Green  of  thy  leaves  and  whiteness  of  thy  clouds, 
Rush  of  thy  streams  and  rustle  of  thy  pines,  — 
With  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  tenderness, 
Till  thou  art  loved  not  for  thyself  alone, 
But  for  the  love  of  many  who  are  gone, 
And  most  of  all  for  one  who  still  remains 
To  make  all  sights  more  fair,  all  sounds  more  sweet, 
All  life  more  dear  and  glad  and  wonderful. 
*  *  * 

John  White  Chadwick. 


LAKE  OF  THE  CLOUDS,  MT.  WASHINGTON. 

QUEEN  of  the  clouds!  afar  from  crowds 
Thou  reignest  all  alone, 
In  solitude  which  few  intrude 
To  bow  at  thy  high  throne. 

On  either  hand  the  mountains  grand 

Their  giant  shoulders  lift 
To  bear  thee  up  like  God's  sweet  cup, 

Brimmed  with  his  precious  gift ! 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Shrined  mid  the  haunts  of  Alpine  plants 

That  wreathe  thy  rocky  rim, 
Like  clustered  vines  the  graver  twines 

About  the  beaker's  brim, 

With  what  delight  I  caught  the  sight 

Of  thee  I  came  to  seek, 
At  peace  and  rest  beneath  the  crest 

Of  Monroe's  splintered  peak; 

Where  naught  is  heard  of  beast  or  bird 

Save  the  lone  eagle's  cry, 
Whose  lordly  flight  eludes  the  sight, 

Lost  in  the  deepening  sky; 

And  where  no  sound  disturbs  the  round 

Of  thy  unruffled  sleep, 
But  bolts  that  flash  and  roar  and  crash 

And  leap  from  steep  to  steep. 

0,  what  an  hour  to  feel  His  power 

Who  said,  and  it  was  done  ; 
And  huge  and  vast  these  hills  stood  fast, 

Eternal  as  the  sun  ! 

By  thy  low  brink  I  knelt  to  drink 

Thy  waters  clear  and  cold, 
As  the  last  ray  that  shuts  the  day 

Flushed  thy  fair  face  with  gold. 

Below  in  light  the  valley  bright 
In  softened  beauty  shone, 


WHITE    MOUNTAINS.  277 

While  o'er  me  rose  in  grand  repose 
The  dome  of  Washington. 

The  soft  green  moss  I  stept  across 

With  wary  feet  and  slow, 
Crept  in  and  out  and  all  about 

The  shattered  rocks  below; 

And  wee  bright  flowers  through  sun  and  showers 

Peered  out  with  sparkling  eyes, 
As  in  the  wild  some  unkempt  child 

Looks  up  in  shy  surprise. 

0  lovely  lake,  for  thy  sweet  sake 

The  powers  of  earth  and  air, 
That  desolate  all  else,  create 

For  thee  a  garden  fair, 

That  mid  the  breath  of  gloom  and  death 

Seems  let  down  from  above 
To  give  us  cheer  where  all  is  drear, 

Like  God's  abounding  love. 

Mid  city  heats  I  tread  the  streets 

And  think  of  thee  afar, 
As  of  one  gone  whose  love  beams  on 

Like  light  from  some  lost  star. 

0  mighty  mount,  0  crystal  fount, 

O  hills  and  lakes  and  streams, 
How  dear  thou  art  to  all  my  heart, 

How  near  in  all  my  dreams. 

*  *  * 

Henry  Henderson. 


278  POEMS  or  PLACES. 

Winnipesaukee,  the  Lake,  N.  H. 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE, 

I.   NOON. 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 
Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces*  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep! 

O  isles  of  calm  !  —  O  dark,  still  wood ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 

And  skies, —  the  hollow  of  God's  hand! 

Transfused  through  you,  0  mountain  friends! 
With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 


WINNIPESAUKEE,    THE    LAKE.  2?9 

0  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers  ! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call, — 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say, — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Eear  to-day  ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 


280  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.    EVENING. 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming  crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each  silver-hemmed  !     How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes  !  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 
And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 


WINNIPESAUKEE,    THE    LAKE.  281 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell !  around  this  smiling  bay 

Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloon\ 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  !•„ 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day- 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 
Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 
The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

For  ever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 

One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ! 
And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 

His  perfect  recompense  to  all! 


282  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

0  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland!  keep  thy  dower 

Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 
Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 

Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

AT  ALTON  BAY. 

WE  saw  in  the  distance  the  dusky  lake  fade, 
Empurpled  with  twilight's  last  tinges; 
And  slow  came  the  Night,  with  her  curtains  of  shade, 

And  the  round  rosy  moon  in  their  fringes. 
We  marked  in  the  sky,  in  the  cloud-lakes  on  high, 

The  flocks  of  birds  dreamily  sailing 
From  the  peaks  in  the  West,  and  settle  to  rest 
Where  the  forest  light  slowly  was  failing, 
Round  bright  Alton  Bay. 

Mist  curtained  the  mountains,  — we  climbed  the  dark 
heights, 

But  a  feeling  of  sadness  came  o'er  us, 
As  we  saw  on  the  hillsides  the  camp-meeting  lights, 

And  heard  the  lone  worshippers'  chorus  — 
"It  is  well  with  my  soul !  "  —  how  it  echoed  afar 

O'er  the  lake  in  the  deep  mountain  shadows, 
While  bright  in  the  sky  shone  the  evening  star 

O'er  the  lonely  lake  islands  and  meadows 
At  still  Alton  Bay. 


WINNIPESAUKEE,    THE    LAKE.  283 

I  knew  not  the  singers,  their  creeds  or  their  names ; 

I  heard  but  the  chorus  ascending, 
While  bright  through  the  pines  shone  the  night-torches' 
flames 

With  the  rays  of  the  shaded  moon  blending; 
And  I  said  on  that  night,  as  I  stood  on  the  height, 

When  time  measures  my  joy  and  my  sorrow, 
My  life  I  would  close  as  the  birds  seek  repose, 

To  dream  of  a  beautiful  morrow 
At  dim  Alton  Bay. 

Then  we  talked  of  the  main,  and  its  night-darkened 

plain, 

Of  the  sweet  prayer  of  trust  on  the  billows ; 
The  worshippers'  strain  rising  sweet  in  the  fane 

In  the  vale  by  the  cool  village  willows; 
The  cathedral's  aisle  dim,  the  antiphonal  hymn, 

The  baptismal  vow  at  the  fountain  : 
Yet  more  grand  seemed  the  word  that  our  charmed 

ears  had  heard  — 

"It  is  well  with  my  soul ! "  —  on  the  mountain, 
At  calm  Alton  Bay. 

Morn  lighted  the  bay,  our  boat  glided  away, 

But  the  fair  lake  I  see  as  a  vision ; 
And  in  dreams  hear  again  the  lone  camp-meeting's  strain 

Like  a  call  from  the  portals  elysian. 
When  the  shade  of  the  past  shall  be  lengthened  at  last, 

And  the  earth  light  around  me  is  paling, 
May  some  holy  song's  breath  on  the  mountain  of  faith 

Turn  my  heart  to  the  Refuge  unfailing, 
As  at  far  Alton  Bay. 

Hezekiah  Butterworth, 


284  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 


AT  WINNIPESAUKEE. 

0  SILENT  hills  across  the  lake, 
Asleep  in  moonlight,  or  awake 
To  catch  the  color  of  the  sky, 
That  sifts  through  every  cloud  swept  by, — 
How  beautiful  ye  are,  in  change 
Of  sultry  haze  and  storm-light  strange; 
How  dream-like  rest  ye  on  the  bar 
That  parts  the  billow  from  the  star; 
How  blend  your  mists  with  waters  clear, 
Till  earth  floats  off,  and  heaven  seems  near. 

Ye  faint  and  fade,  a  pearly  zone, 
The  coast-line  of  a  land  unknown. 
Yet  that  is  sunburnt  Ossipee, 
Plunged  knee-deep  in  the  limpid  sea : 
Somewhere  among  these  grouping  isles, 
Old  White-Face  from  his  cloud-cap  smiles, 
And  gray  Chocorua  bends  his  crown, 
To  look  on  happy  hamlets  down; 
And  every  pass  and  mountain-slope 
Leads  out  and  on  some  human  hope. 

Here  the  great  hollows  of  the  hills 
The  glamour  of  the  June  day  fills. 
Along  the  climbing  path  the  brier, 
In  rose-bloom  beauty  beckoning  higher, 
Breathes  sweetly  the  warm  uplands  over 
And,  gay  with  buttercups  and  clover, 


WOONSOCKET.  285 

The  slopes  of  meadowy  freshness  make 
A  green  foil  to  the  sparkling  lake. 

So  is  it  with  yon  hills  that  swim 
Upon  the  horizon,  blue  and  dim: 
For  all  the  summer  is  not  ours  ; 
On  other  shores  familiar  flowers 
Find  blossoming  as  fresh  as  these, 
In  shade  and  shine  and  eddying  breeze; 
And  scented  slopes  as  cool  and  green, 
To  kiss  of  lisping  ripples  lean. 

*  *  * 

Lucy  Larcom. 


Woonsocket,  R.  I. 

FROM  WOONSOCKET  HILL. 

THE  earth,  this  beautiful  summer's  day, 
Is  in  perfect  tune  with  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
And  the  fleecy  white  of  the  clouds  that  play 
On  the  wings  of  the  amorous  zephyr's  sigh. 

My  errant  fancy  has  led  me  here, 

To  the  highest  point  of  Woonsocket's  crest, 

In  this  sweetest  season  of  the  year 

When  fields  and  woods  are  in  verdure  dressed. 

I  left  the  valley  far,  far  behind, 
As  ever  upward  the  pathway  led, 


286  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Past  gray  stone-walls  where  the  ivy  twined, 
And  the  elms  a  grateful  coolness  shed; 

Past  the  farm-house  old,  'neath  the  sycamore, 
"With  its  well-curb  aged  and  moss  o'ergrown, 

And  the  broad  flat  stones  before  the  door,* 
Wearing  slow  as  the  years  have  flown; 

Till  at  last  I  have  reached  the  highest  peak 
And  before  me  the  landscape  stretches  wide, 

And  eastward  or  westward  the  eye  may  seek 
Yet  find  no  bound  to  restrain  its  pride. 

Southeastward  a  line  of  darker  hue 
Than  the  sky  that  meets  it,  far  away, 

Tells  that  there  are  dancing  the  wavelets  blue 
On  the  bosom  of  Narragansett  Bay. 

On  the  left  Wachuset,  showing  dim 

Through  wreaths  of  vapor  that  round  it  fold, 

Crowns  with  its  dome  the  horizon's  rim, 
Like  some  eastern  temple,  grand  and  old. 

While  nearer,  along  the  valleys  green, 
Full  many  a  village  meets  the  eye, 

And  here  and  there  the  silver  sheen 
Of  a  brooklet  mirrors  the  arching  sky. 

What  pleasure  it  is  to  linger  here, 

Through  the  summer  hours  so  warm  and  bright, 
Watching  the  landscape,  far  and  near, 

Framed  in  the  sunshine  golden  light ! 
*  *  * 

John  L.  Osborne. 


YOKK.  287 


York,  Me. 

AGAMENTICUS. 

SIB  FEHDINANDO  GOEGES  looked  with  special  interest  upon  the  pleas- 
antly located  little  settlement  of  Agamenticus.  On  the  first  of  March, 
1642,  he  erected  the  borough  into  a  city,  extending  the  charter  over  a 
region  embracing  twenty-one  square  miles.  This  forest  city  was  on  the 
north  side  of  the  river,  and  extended  seven  miles  back  from  the  river's 
mouth. 

TTTHERE  rises  grand,  majestic,  tall, 
»  »    As  in  a  dream,  the  towering  wall 

That  scorns  the  restless,  surging  tide, 
Once  spanned  the  mart  and  street  and  mall, 

And  arched  the  trees  on  every  side 

Of  this  great  city,  once  in  pride. 
For  hither  came  a  knightly  train 

From  o'er  the  sea  with  gorgeous  court; 
The  mayors,  gowned  in  robes  of  state, 
Held  brilliant  tourney  on  the  plain, 

And  massive  ships  within  the  port 

Discharged  their  load  of  richest  freight. 
Then  when  at  night,  the  sun  gone  down 

Behind  the  western  hill  and  tree, 
The  bowls  were  filled,  —  this  toast  they  crown, 

"  Long  live  the  City  by  the  Sea !  " 

Now  sailless  drift  the  lonely  seas, 
No  shallops  load  at  wharves  or  quays, 

But  hulks  are  strewn  along  the  shore,  — 
Gaunt  skeletons  indeed  are  these 

That  lie  enchanted  by  the  roar 


288  HpEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Of  ocean  wave  and  sighing  trees  ! 
Oh,  tell  me  where  the  pompous  squhes, 
The  chant  at  eve,  the  matin  prayers, 
The  knights  in  armor  for  the  fray? 
The  mayors,  where,  and  courtly  sires, 
The  eager  traders  with  their  wares,  — 
How  went  these  people  hence  away  ? 
And  when  the  evening  sun  sinks  down, 
Weird  voices  come  from  hill  and  tree, 
Yet  tell  no  tales,  —  this  toast  they  crown, 
"  Long  live  the  Spectre  by  the  Sea !  " 

Anonymous. 


END    OP  VOL.    II. 


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